Empty the Haunted Air
by highland laurel
Summary: This story follows "When Stars Fall" and continues the story of Mingo's experiences in England and his journey back to his Cherokee homeland.
1. Chapter 1

The Dark Side of Midnight

Alone in his upstairs room once again, Edmund Kerr Murray stood staring out of the tall window onto the severely manicured lawn and shrubbery of his father's London townhouse. The thick London air swirled before him, a mixture of fog, smoke, dirt and odors.

Unconsciously the boy wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes. Unbidden came the memories of his native Kentucky woodlands. The clean fresh woodsy air, the soft dark soil and the clear, clear rivers. He blinked away the sudden tears and swallowed the lump in his throat. All that was past. He was a captive now in this strange land that his father seemed to appreciate, if not love.

Did his father love him? That was the question that haunted his thoughts. There seemed to be ample proof that he did not. Then why had he been taken from his homeland and brought to his father's home if not because of love? The familiar thoughts followed their proscribed path through his agile mind. Because of what he was. A product, a replacement, a guarantee that the line would continue. When Lord Dunsmore looked at him, there was cold scrutiny in his hard blue eyes. A measuring. And Edmund knew that somehow he did not measure up to expectations.

His head dropped onto his chest as the deep longing for acceptance swept over the boy. He yearned for his home, his friends, and his mother. But she was dead and his home was far away over the cold Atlantic Ocean. Clenching both his fists and his jaw, the young half-blood Cherokee fought the anguish as he fought it every hour of every day. The battle had made him thin and worn. His loneliness was a living thing inside of him, threatening to consume his very life. Despair robbed him of any possibility for happiness. His future seemed as bleak as the grey London fog.

The heavy walnut clock downstairs chimed the hour of five. His tutors would now be reporting to his father. Every blunder, every flaw would be exposed. Any delay in absolute obedience would be catalogued. And any challenge would soon be punished. He heard the massive front door close and knew that the two men had returned to their homes. His father's gruff voice would soon demand his presence in the library to confront the daily list of evidence compiled against him.

"Edmund!" The summons rang through the dark paneled halls.

Swallowing the lump that continued to rise in his throat and willing his heartbeat to slow, the boy opened his door and entered the dim hall. The buckled shoes encasing his feet clacked on the wooden floors. He slowly descended the long flight of stairs and entered the lamplit library where his father stood ready to lay all his faults before him.

"Close the door," his father ordered. Edmund gently pulled the doors closed and stood just inside the large library. Book shelves lined all four walls. This room was Edmund's secret treasure. When his father was asleep and the night was far spent the boy often crept into this room and removed a volume to stash away in his own hiding place. Underneath the largest drawer on his dresser was a space large enough to slide a small book. The maid who straightened his room had never found it.

Inside that same space hid a speckled stone that his mother found one day as they waded in the stream near the village. She had laughingly given it to the child by her side then splashed bright droplets to cool the little one's long legs and slender body. The stone was all that physically remained to remind Edmund of his Cherokee mother. She lay in far off Kentucky, her scaffold raising her body into the clean sky.

"Master Robie and Master Hoskins report that today you were not prepared to recite in either mathematics or geography. Why?" Edmund's father's eyes bored into his. The boy raised his chin and returned the stare. "Answer me, you insolent whelp!"

The impatience and disapproval in Lord Dunsmore's voice stiffened the boy's spine. His own voice was cold and disrespectful as he replied. "Because I do not like mathematics and Master Robie is a dunce."

The reaction was swift and expected. Edmund rocked back on his heels as the heavy hand lashed across his mouth. Another slap followed and his inner lip cut itself against his teeth. The salty taste of blood reinforced his resistance and he stood still glaring defiantly at his tall father.

"Your insolence WILL NOT be tolerated! Why must you be so intractable?" Lord Dunsmore's voice was cold and betrayed no hint of affection for the dark skinned boy before him.

"Why don't you love me?" the boy questioned silently in his mind. "Why did you take me from my family and my home if you don't love me?" Aloud he responded, "Because I am right and you know it."

The blow was powerful and the boy staggered against the closed door. Blood began to pour from his nose and mouth where the heavy hand did the most damage. Eyes flaming with anger and hate, the boy spun on his heels and opened the library door, rushed through to the heavy front door, pulled it open and was lost in the oppressive fog.

Running down the darkening street, the boy nearly toppled the lamplighter from the ladder leaning against the light pole. The rough Londoner cursed at the running boy, the sound of his coarse language following behind the fleeing child. Edmund turned at the first intersection and continued aimlessly running.

The sensation took his mind back to his native Kentucky where a Cherokee child could run freely whenever he wanted. The heavy stiff shoes impeded his flight. He was tempted to remove them and feel the pavement on his stocking feet. But he knew that the streets of London contained all manner of debris and to remove his shoes would be to invite injury.

The heavy, dirty air made breathing difficult and he had to stop to catch his breath. The fog swirled around him, reaching damp fingers across his bruised face. He could feel the blood continuing to trickle from his nose. When he put his hand up to check the damage he felt that his face was sticky with blood. He must look frightful. He turned his head to get his bearings and discovered that the thickening fog obscured all but the very nearest objects. He was lost.

The knowledge brought conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he may be able to escape and somehow flee back to America. On the other, he was damp, chilled, hungry and uneasy. The city of London was very, very large. It was full of dangerous people. He did not know how to deal with such people and he knew it.

Trembling from the exertion, emotional and physical stress, he turned slowly trying to get his bearings. Sounds began to intrude on his consciousness. Wheels on cobblestones. Footsteps. Distant voices. Church bells chiming the hour. It was six o'clock and fully dark. The smothering air closed in all around him and he began to pant.

Into his mind came the memory of his father as he delivered the last blow. Red with anger, lips pursed, eyes cold and full of disapproval. The fine well-groomed hands. The beautifully tailored coat draped over the strong, tall body. Handsome, connected, well-liked by all the right people and saddled with a half-breed from the wilds of America.

Edmund knew that was how his father viewed his being. Suddenly came the realization that he would always be seen in that light. His father would never love him, never be proud to claim him as a son, never see him for the person that he was. Though tears stung his eyes, his jaw clenched and his eyes burned with emotion. At that moment the boy known as Caramingo to the Cherokee pushed all his natural softness and sensitivity deep into his heart and the hard crust of survival formed over his gentle soul.

He continued to walk, listening for the sound of a coach. He had decided to go to Bristol, find a ship headed for the colonies and sign on as a cabin boy. The usual age for a cabin boy was around thirteen, and Edmund was nearly that age. He was tall, and he was sure that no one would doubt his age. The idea grew in his mind. He began to dream of the freedom that the sea would bring with no one to make him stay below decks as his father had done on the voyage from Philadelphia.

Horribly seasick, heartsick from his mother's death and the forced removal from all he had known, Edmund needed reassurance and affection from his father. Instead he received only cold orders to stay hidden from the other passengers and crew. He was stiffly dressed in restrictive clothing and his long black hair was nearly shorn off.

Day after day his father drilled him on the English language, manners and customs. Any sign of grief was considered weakness by Lord Dunsmore and the boy quickly learned to hide his emotions from his father. Except for anger. He could not hide the growing anger that pushed against his heart and made swallowing difficult. His father pretended not to notice, so instead of growing close in their mutual need the two grew farther and farther apart.

The fog intensified. Walking slower because of it, Edmund was stopped by an English policeman. The officer noticed the fine stained clothes and the blood that covered the boy's face and hands. He gripped Edmund's shoulder. " 'Ere, boy. Where'r you going on this bleak and foggy night? Eh? What happened to ye?"

"I want to find a ship, sir. I want to be a cabin boy on a ship to America."

The officer heard the cultured accent and knew at once that this boy came from quality. There had obviously been a confrontation of some kind, probably with his father. The officer had seen other boys in the same condition. He sighed. "No ship is going to take you, lad. You're quality folks. No captain would take a chance on hauling away some upper crust boy. He'd know your father wouldn't like it. Now, who is your father?"

Edmund stood silently before the authority figure. The man continued to hold his shoulder making it difficult to turn and run. As if reading the boy's mind, the officer tightened his grip. In the weak light of the nearby lamp the officer saw the boy's eyes. They were dark and communicated only anger and despair. It was then that the officer noticed the heavy black hair. He knew who the boy's father was: John Murray. The Earl who had spent years in the colonies and returned with a half-breed son to take his place as Lord Dunsmore. The officer's kind face turned hard and a sneer began to form.

"I know you now, boy. You belong to himself, the Earl of Dunsmore. I'm taking you back to him. You crazy, boy? Got yourself a big house, a warm bed, plenty of food, servants to take care o' ye. Coaches to travel in. Ready to throw it all away to run half-naked through a forest? There's millions'd give their eye teeth to have a tenth o' what you got. You think about that. Now come on!"

The officer pulled on Edmund's shoulder and pushed the slender boy in front of him down the dark street. Head down, the shaking boy dragged his feet and the officer accidentally tripped him. He fell hard on the pavement and skinned both knees and both hands. The officer pulled him up without a word of kindness and pushed him forward. They walked nearly an hour until Edmund stood before the large brick house that was thought to be his home.

When the officer rang the bell the Earl himself answered the door. Tipping his hat, the officer pushed Edmund over the threshold and into the Earl's tall body. Both the boy and the man recoiled as though the touch caused physical pain. The officer saw and smirked. The Earl tipped the officer a half-crown and closed the door. He stood still several seconds before turning to face the weary boy.

"You have disgraced yourself, disgraced me, and disgraced our family's title. I never, repeat **never**, want you to behave in such a dishonorable way again. A man cannot run away from his obligations, Edmund. They remain no matter how he tries to dodge them. And so it is with you. You have an obligation to become the Earl of Dunsmore. You have a line of ancestors who preserved this title for you, with their treasure and their honor. You owe them. You owe me. And you **will** conduct yourself as I expect a person of royal blood to conduct themselves. Do you understand me?"

Edmund stood with his head bowed. Yes, he had royal blood. From his mother. She was a member of the ruling clan, sister to the chief. The royal British blood was nothing compared to hers. Deep in his heart Caramingo accepted his royal Cherokee blood and the rights and duties that it brought. But he knew that he would never accept the trappings that his British blood demanded. He also knew that his father would not wait long for a reply to his demand. He raised his bloody head and looked straight into his father's hard eyes.

"Yes, sir."

"Yes sir, what?"

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"Go upstairs and wash yourself. Lay your bloody clothes beside the door for Henry to take care of in the morning. Leave the bloody towels for Emma. Go to bed and sleep. You must redouble your efforts with your studies. You must be ready to take the entrance exams soon, and you must earn a place at Oxford."

"My status will only take you so far; the rest must be your doing. And you will not be the first son of an Earl to fail. You will not! Mark my words, Edmund. If I have to beat you every day, you will not fail to make yourself ready to follow in my family's footsteps. Now go!"

The weary, hungry boy stumbled up the long staircase and into his room. Emma had lighted the candle for him and turned down the bed. There was a full pitcher of water and three fresh towels on his wash stand. He kicked off his stiff heavy shoes. Numbly he unbuttoned his bloody shirt and pulled it over his head. His trousers followed. He stood naked in the cool, damp room.

His mind shot back to his mother's lodge in Kentucky. He had his own little narrow cot near hers. They would talk together and sing together each night before they fell asleep. When his father was present there was no comfortable sharing between them. His father expected silence once you were in bed.

He remembered the feel of the fur against his bare skin. His father demanded that here he wear a nightshirt. The one time that he defied the man and the maid found him unclothed in the bed, his father had whipped him with his riding crop for heathen behavior. His muscular buttocks bore the scars as proof and reminder.

He poured the water into the basin and dipped his bloody hands. He leaned over and splashed water onto his crusty face. The soft soap helped loosen the dried blood and after three rinses he could see no more blood reflected in the mirror above the small table. He dried his face with the last towel, then used the washcloth to rinse the day's sweat from under his arms, around his neck, behind his knees, and below his waist.

His mind brought memories of refreshing swims in Kentucky's clear rivers. While here in London, he had only bathed once a week in a tub of water. He missed the feeling of cool water flowing over his slender body. Clenching his jaw once again, he willed the memory from his mind.

He placed his bloody clothes and towels outside his door for the maid and valet to find. Then pulling his nightshirt over his head he stepped in front of the mirror once again. His large dark eyes stared back from the reflective surface. There was no sparkle of humor, no joy of living. Only the dead eyes of a wooden puppet. And that was what Caramingo was to become if the Earl of Dunsmore was successful.


	2. Chapter 2

In Deepest Darkness

Frantically Edmund pulled the heavy drawer from his dresser. The stone was not there. He turned and dashed down the stairs, bursting in through the closed doors of his father's library. The three gentlemen seated before his father's desk turned in surprise. Straight to his father's desk Edmund ran. "Where is it? What have you done with it?" he shouted. John Murray rose to his full height and stepped around his desk.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said to the three men who remained seated before him, their patrician lips lifted in arrogant sneers. Grabbing the teen's arm tightly he pulled his son out of the library. He closed the doors with one hand as he held the struggling boy with the other. Then he raised his hand and slapped his son's face as hard as he could.

"Stop this! A gentleman never interrupts another, and he never, never rants uncontrollably. Have you no pride at all?"

Again the tall man slapped the boy's face, then grasping him by both arms shook him as hard as his strong frame would allow. He pulled the boy toward the stairway. Edmund planted his feet against his father's pull. Lord Dunsmore again slapped the boy's face, this time cutting Edmund's lip with his heavy signet ring. The downstairs butler Joseph appeared and between the two men they dragged the raging, bleeding boy up the stairs to his room.

In the library the three guests smirked at each other and refilled their glasses with Lord Dunsmore's fine port. The eldest gentleman brushed his hand against his coat in a gesture easily understood by the other two. Lord Dunsmore would be well rid of such filth as that wild dark-skinned half-breed bastard. The three men sipped the Earl's wine and chuckled viciously.

Upstairs the two men tried to restrain the struggling boy inside his own room. Though slender, Edmund was very strong. As they wrestled together Henry entered the room, grabbed the struggling teen's wrists and pulled. Edmund fell to the floor, the valet still holding on.

Henry lay on the floor holding the boy's wrists. Lord Dunsmore lay across his struggling body. Joseph tried to grab the boy's flailing feet and got kicked in the mouth. The blow split both lips and blood dripped onto the polished wooden floor. Emma rushed into the room and stood with her hands over her mouth.

"Go out to the stable and get one of the grooms to give you a stout rope. Bring it to me along with a large kitchen knife. Now!" Lord Dunsmore barked. Emma scurried out of the door and the three men continued to wrestle with the out-of-control boy.

His father's heavy body stretched over his ribs made breathing difficult, and after a short time Edmund was severely out of breath. But the injustice done to him and the resulting rage would not allow him to accept defeat. He continued to struggle. Less than a minute later the roaring in his ears joined with the explosions behind his eyes and he tipped into the smothering darkness.

He awoke some time later still in complete darkness. As his eyes adjusted he realized that he was in his own room, sitting against the footboard of his own bed. His wrists were tied to the footboard with a heavy rope. His head ached and his stomach churned. Memory returned, and a quivering sigh escaped his dry lips. He was very thirsty.

Shame washed over him as he remembered his behavior. No Cherokee warrior would lose his temper that way. The theft of his mother's rock was unforgivable, true, but his angry display would not recover the stone. His mind began to work on the problem. What would his father have done with the rock? Thrown it outside with the other rocks, of course. All he had to do was to find it and hide it more carefully. But where?

The answer came to him like a flash of lightning. Hide it in plain sight, as he should have done before. Put it with the other rocks in one of the flower beds. Only he would know where it was and he could sneak out at night and hold it in his hand, as he had often done when it was hidden in his dresser. He had been a fool. Never again would he make such an error.

He sighed heavily and dropped his head onto his chest. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away. He would not cry. And he would not bend. But he would survive. That would be his revenge upon Lord Dunsmore and all that he represented.

When the morning light lit the room Emma came in with clean towels. She did not look at the boy still tied to the bed, his wrists raw and bloody. Her footsteps woke the dozing boy and he lifted his head. He could feel the blood crusted around his mouth where his lip had been cut. His mouth was very dry and swallowing was difficult. He tried to speak, and had to clear his throat before he could make himself heard.

"May I have a drink, please?" he managed to whisper.

Emma glanced out of the open door, then brought the full pitcher from his nightstand and tipped it against the boy's lips. He drank thirstily for several seconds. She quickly replaced the pitcher and scurried from the room. Seconds later the Earl stood in the doorway, his eyes cold and his face controlled. He stared at his son tied to the bed, his head fallen forward and his wrists bleeding.

"Are you ready to control yourself, Edmund?"

The boy raised his head and replied, "Yes, sir."

"Then I will have Henry release you within the hour. Clean yourself and have breakfast. Your tutors will be waiting. And as for that rock that brought about your disgraceful display of temper, it is gone. It was a rock. An object unworthy of any notice. One of a million scattered around this property. For the sake of a stone you caused my associates to witness your display of barbarism. You will send a written apology to each of them, today. In this apology you will denounce your heathenish behavior and beg their forgiveness. Am I making myself clear?"

Edmund raised his dark eyes to his father's. The Earl's haughty expression relayed power. In accordance with the promise he had made to himself during the long hours of the night, the boy released his breath and replied calmly.

"Yes sir."

The Earl spun on his heel and Edmund could hear his heavy footsteps descending the stairs. His empty stomach growled uncomfortably. Cramped and sore from the battle last evening, he shifted to try and ease his cramping shoulder muscles. Several minutes later Henry released him, and another day began.

Months later Edmund easily passed the entrance examinations for Oxford. His tutors were given a large bonus for their success. He was assigned a room with a single bed and a single desk. He understood that this was a punishment and he pretended to be upset with the assignment. But he was secretly very pleased.

The reason for his isolation was not pleasing. He suspected that it was because of his Indian blood; no one would want to share space with a half-breed wild man from the colonies even if he was the son of an Earl. Fleetingly he wondered what the Earl had promised the headmaster to ensure his admittance.

Henry unloaded his trunk and unpacked. He hung Edmund's clothes in the small closet. The toiletries were placed neatly on the small dressing table. He made the narrow bed and placed the clean towels upon the towel rack. Then he bowed to the youth and left the small room.

Alone, Edmund looked out of the narrow window upon the courtyard. He did not recognize a single person passing below his window. Loneliness was a very familiar feeling, but it was still unpleasant. Longing for his boyhood friends washed over him and he willed the emotion away.

His hand sought the speckled rock hidden in his pocket. The smooth surface was reassuring, as though his mother's hand was softly caressing his cheek and smoothing back his short black hair. "Mother", he whispered to the empty room. "I promise to make you proud. Someday I will return and take my rightful place among your people. This I vow."

A bell rang somewhere in the building. Doors banged open as boys rushed through the hall and down the stairs. Edmund opened his door and surveyed the passing throng. Two boys stopped their headlong rush and stepped to his side.

"I say, you're new, hey? Come on! That's the dinner bell. Everyone is to be in the dining hall within five minutes or you get a demerit." The speaker was a blonde boy several inches shorter than Edmund. His blue eyes radiated friendliness and joy.

"Come on, Masterson, let's go." The other boy was nearly as tall as Edmund. He had light brown hair and light brown eyes. His eyes were filled with curiosity as he looked at the tall Cherokee youth. "What's your name?"

Edmund's mind quickly discarded his first name. That was what his father called him. He realized the freedom that would come with a new name and replied, "Kerr. Kerr Murray." He smiled to himself at the Anglicized version of his Cherokee name's first syllable.

The boy called Masterson grabbed Edmund's arm and pulled him out into the hall. The throng swept the three teens along with it. They rushed down the two flights of stairs and out into the courtyard. Opposite was the large dining hall. The boys took three chairs together, standing respectfully until all the Masters were seated at the head table. The signal was given and the entire roomful of boys sat. A long table blessing was given and then the food began to arrive.

Edmund carefully copied the other boys. The friendly blonde boy turned to him and began a conversation. Grateful for the offering of friendship, Edmund replied with more warmth than he had given to anyone since stepping off of the ship four years before.

Joey Masterson was the son of a well-connected merchant in London. The boy on Edmund's left was Calvin Cushing, the oldest son of the college's resident dominie. Together the two boys provided Edmund with all the necessary information and gossip currently circulating through the college's student body. Silently he absorbed their messages and their friendship. The cold crust carefully protecting his heart began to melt. He even managed to smile at one of Joey's tales, and the blonde boy laughed delightedly.

When the Masters finished their meal another bell rang and all the boys stood at attention as the elders left the dining hall. The boys left table by table and returned to their respective dormitories. Calvin asked to see Edmund's schedule. Together he and Joey drew a map to show Edmund where all of his respective classes were located and the best route to get to them.

At eight o'clock another bell sounded. Joey and Calvin rose to go to their own room. They explained that the bell signaled the end of the day and all the boys were to be in bed by 8:30 lights out. If not, they received a demerit. Demerits equaled a loss of privileges.

Edmund thanked them for all of their help and bid them good night. Alone again in his room he rubbed his teeth with a clean washcloth and then washed his face and body using the water contained in the pitcher placed on his night stand. Stripping his clothing off and hanging it neatly in the closet he stood naked in the dark room and said his Cherokee prayers. Then with no one to forbid it, he slipped under the sheet totally unclothed and fell into a deep sleep.

He was at the college for several weeks before his saw his father again. It was All Saint's Day. Edmund was forced to endure the hours' long church service beside his father, celebrating the lives of the saints. The day was also his own birthday but no celebration was planned for that. Indeed, his father did not even acknowledge the event. The only reason that Edmund knew it was his birthday was that he had seen his Oxford enrollment papers on his father's desk months ago and noticed the birth date.

He had seen Joey Masterson's family come and take him for a birthday celebration just days before. His own birthday stood in stark contrast and his sensitive soul was wounded. But he was not surprised. It was further verification that his father considered him an unwanted accident, an inconvenient burden. He was nothing more than a duty required by the family. He spent the entire afternoon after the service alone in the upstairs room of his father's Oxford apartment, mourning for his mother. His father remained shut in the room below, alone with his memories.

Late into the night the Earl sat alone. Before him lay a crumpled paper, the lines blurred with tears. He had found it on the floor beside Edmund's desk while the boy was outside in the small garden. Taking it into his hands once more, John Murray read the simple lines:

In deepest darkness here I lie

I see your bier against the sky

No thought of you from him you loved

Your son alone to mourn.

I'm captive here so far away

From where we used to sing and play

Kentucky's wild free land my home.

I was unfairly torn.

I will go back for this I vow

I make the promise to you now

The speckled stone a monument

Though weathered smooth and worn.

The uncensored lines pierced his heart. But he was incapable of allowing the raw emotion to influence his charted course. He had a duty to his family, and he would perform that duty no matter what the consequences. And so would his son, the wild Cherokee boy with the bleeding heart. The Earl crumpled the tear-stained paper in his hand and threw it into the fire. The boy left for class the following morning, pale and silent. The Earl did not tell him goodbye. He remained barricaded in his room. Duty was sometimes a cruel master and the boy may as well learn the lesson now.

The Christmas holiday arrived soon after. Edmund was not looking forward to leaving the dormitory and the companionship of the other two boys. His examinations were completed and his marks sent by post to his father. He knew that he had done well. His reluctance stemmed from the looming weeks that must soon be spent in his father's presence.

December 23rd the coach arrived to bear him home. Henry packed his necessary belongings, then carried the trunk out to the coach. Edmund slowly followed. Behind him Joey Masterson called his farewell. Edmund turned and waved at the smiling blonde boy. Then he stepped into the carriage and steeled himself for the homecoming.

His father was not at home when he arrived. Henry carried the trunk to his former bedroom and unpacked it. Edmund went to stand by the tall mullioned window that looked out onto the now brown, bleak winter garden. A cold fog was beginning to settle over the city. The chill air matched Edmund's mood and he shivered. Henry bent to lay a fire in the small black marble fireplace. The warm glow brightened the room pleasantly.

Edmund remembered the glowing fire ring in his mother's cabin in the woods of Kentucky. He sighed and fingered the speckled rock in his pocket. Then he quickly walked downstairs and out the kitchen door to place the rock in the ruined flower bed. He would not take the chance that it would be discovered in his possession.

Christmas Day began with a heavy snowfall that delayed their arrival at the morning church services. The tardiness angered Lord Dunsmore so that he was more gruff and impatient that usual. Edmund entered the church behind his father and followed him up the aisle to their accustomed pew. There he endured the long service, making the necessary responses with his voice but not his mind or heart. The music he enjoyed, the beautiful majestic chords rising to the rafters of the vaulted edifice.

When the service finally ended and the membership dispersed they found the snow had not diminished but intensified. The journey home would be slow. Edmund and his father would be trapped inside the confines of the coach, possibly for an hour. The prospect was very unpleasant for them both. Edmund asked if he could just walk home and surprisingly his father agreed. In seconds the boy was out of the coach and onto the snowy sidewalk, breathing the cold air gratefully.

He took a tortuous route to his father's house. Along the way he made a wrong turn and passed through a part of the city that he had never seen before. It was only blocks from his house but the dilapidated buildings leaned dangerously. Children of all sizes huddled in doorways, some dressed in only shirts and trousers in the freezing weather. They were wet with the cold snow. Edmund walked slower as he looked at the unfortunate children. They stared back with eyes hollowed from hunger and disease. He began to bite his lip in distress.

He stopped completely before a ruined doorway where three small children huddled together. Their eyes, ringed with dark shadows, looked at him hopelessly. Impulsively he removed the warm wool coat from his own back and held it out to the smallest child, a little girl about four years old. She grabbed the garment, warm from his body, and snuggled down inside the silken lining. Her older sister burrowed inside also.

The boy, about seven, stood shivering beside his sisters. Edmund unwound his soft wool scarf from his neck, and leaning over, wound the warm length around the little boy's neck and shoulders, crossing it over his skinny chest. The boy smiled at him with a nearly toothless grin. A wave of guilt washed over the tall youth. His mind flashed back to the night four years ago when the policeman had taken him home to his father: " Got yourself a big house, a warm bed, plenty of food, servants to take care o' ye.... millions would give their eye teeth to have a tenth of what you have."

The injustice of the situation gnawed at his generous heart. He resolved to come back to this section of the city with every bit of clothing that he could spare. He would do it tonight after his father was asleep. The thought eased his guilty feelings and he began to run.

He reached home seconds before his father's coach turned down the street. Dashing upstairs, Edmund managed to close the door to his room before his father could see him coatless. Smiling to himself, he began to go through his closet and dresser drawers, adding to a growing pile of clothing heaped on the floor beside his bed.

After midnight Edmund soundlessly slipped through the front door and walked easily through the winter night. He wore his old coat that was too small, his wrists visible for several inches. In his arms he carried several shirts and trousers as well as several pairs of woolen and cotton stockings.

He silently laid garments in every doorway for an entire block, then ran home and slipped back inside the front door. Without a sound he climbed the sweeping staircase and eased quietly back into his room. He undressed, slipped his nightshirt on, and crawled into bed. He felt at peace and fell into a deep refreshing sleep.

He was awakened in the morning by a tumult in the street. Hurriedly dressing, he dashed downstairs and opened the door. A hundred yards away a carriage was stopped. Behind it, in the snowy street, was a bundle of rags. People stood all around it, gesturing and babbling. The coach's driver was talking to a policeman. Edmund felt drawn to the bundle. As he slowly approached he could see that it was a small child. Her head was strangely flattened and her eyes bulged sightlessly. There was blood pooling all around her head, matting in her chocolate brown hair.

He stood staring helplessly, unaware of the wailing woman who was rushing up behind him. He watched as she flung herself over the child's body, tearing at the snow and her own hair in frantic grief. She raised the child's body and Edmund gasped as he recognized his own coat given away only yesterday. It was the littlest girl that had stood in the doorway with her sister and brother. Edmund turned away and clung to the iron fence beside the street. His gorge rose and he vomited onto the snowy sidewalk. Yards away the coach door opened and a gentleman stepped out onto the snowy street.

"Officer, my driver could not avoid the child. She dashed out into the street in front of my horse. She was entirely at fault. Now, I am late to my appointment. Robert, let us be going." The gentleman climbed back into the coach and closed the door behind him. The grieving woman rose and clutched the coach's door.

"Who's goin' to bury my child? I haint got the means to do it. My man is dead. Who's goin' to bury my child?" Her voice broke with emotion. The gentleman gestured with his hand. Edmund heard his reply clearly and a chill ran through his tall young body.

"What do I care, madam? It is not my whelp. Put her in the pauper's graveyard with all the rest. Drive on, Robert!" The carriage lunged forward and the woman's hand was torn from the door. Edmund's eyes followed the coach as it turned the corner and disappeared. He felt a hand grasp his collar and pull.

"Get back into the house! There's another dead beggar in the street. What is that to you?" His father's hand continued to pull backwards and Edmund lost his footing. He slipped and grabbed onto the iron fence, then turned to look into his father's expressionless face. There was no trace of compassion or sympathy. Behind him he could still hear the mother wailing for her dead child. The disconnect between the reactions shook him to the bottom of his soul. He began to shiver.

"Where is your coat, Edmund? If you catch a chill I will punish you for your carelessness." The Earl walked the few steps back into his warm house. Behind him followed his son, his jaw clenched and his hands knotted into fists.

"Where is my coat indeed", thought the shivering boy. But the shiver was not caused by the cold air. It was caused by the coldness of his father and the class of men who called themselves gentlemen.

Edmund grieved for the little girl, spending long hours alone is his room reading and thinking. In the smothering stillness after midnight he wrote pages of poetry which he destroyed before Emma could find them. No one questioned his lethargy. Emma brought him fresh towels and fresh water, and continued to empty the slop jar and chamber pot. Henry continued to lay out his clothes every day, never commenting upon the diminished wardrobe.

He pondered the reality of servants who he knew were human but who behaved as though they were machines fixated on only one task, one purpose. What were their lives like inside their minds where he could not see? Did they ever wonder what he was thinking?

His father sat across from him at every meal and did not notice his lack of appetite. He felt invisible as a ghost in the big dark house. In the bleak lonely hours of the night he cried out to the Christian God, seeking an answer for the injustices of the world. He sought solace that did not come. He became even thinner and more lethargic. No one noticed his agony, and no one cared.

Finally the next semester began at Oxford and he was able to leave the echoes of his father's house. He looked forward anxiously to seeing Joey and Calvin and renewing their friendship. His studies would block the anguished memories from his mind as the long silent hours could not. Henry repeated his duties once again and left Edmund watching out the window for his friends' arrival.

Night fell and still they did not come. He was beginning to worry that they had left the college when there was a knock on his door. He flung it open with happy words of greeting on his lips. The expression on Calvin Cushing's face caused them to die before they were spoken.

"Kerr, Joey is dead."

He understood the words but they had no meaning. He stared at Calvin still standing in the hall, darkness all around him. The tall brown haired boy stepped into the room and closed the door. Edmund backed away from him until he felt the outside wall press into his shoulders. Calvin looked at him with blank eyes and explained.

"He and his brother were skating on the Thames near their home the day after Christmas. The ice broke and Joey fell through. The current was strong and it took him under the ice. His brother couldn't get to him in time. He drowned, Kerr. I was at the funeral. He's dead."

Into Edmund's mind came the image of Joey's laughing blonde face. The twinkling blue eyes now forever closed. The happy smile forever sobered. The brilliant mind forever lost. The warm loving heart forever stilled. He stood stiffly in the small lonely room and remembered the friendship. The cold crust of ice that had been reforming around his heart thickened. He tightened his lips and looked into Calvin's pale face.

"Come and room with me, Kerr. We can still be friends even without Joey." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I'm lonely without him. Please come and stay with me."

Edmund nodded his head in agreement. He placed his warm hand on Calvin's cold shoulder. Together they walked out of the room and across the hall where Joey's bed remained empty and barren. Edmund helped Calvin undress and slip into his own bed. Then he lay down fully clothed upon Joey's unmade bed. In the deep darkness the tears slipped silently out of his eyes as he wept for all the losses in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

The Hour Before Dawn

The dominie from Oxford sat in one of the upholstered chairs before Lord Dunsmore's desk. A glass of fine sherry was lightly held in his hand as he and his host discussed Edmund's progress. The Earl wore a look of frustration on his face as the discussion continued.

"His marks are acceptably high, except for the mathematics courses. He seems to excel in both language and history. His athletics courses all report advanced athletic ability and a healthy sense of competition. His deportment is not the best. He has always been obstinate and confrontational but compliant if somewhat reluctantly so. I do not understand the nature of your visit, sir."

"He also excels in music, Lord Dunsmore. He has been gifted with a truly exceptional voice. It is warm and deep, capable of conveying great emotion. The range is remarkable. You have heard him in one of the many oratorios performed this past year at the chapel?"

From the expression on his host's face the vicar could tell that the man had never heard his son's magnificent singing voice. And did not care.

The vicar's face was carefully bland but behind his eyes his mind was working. He was beginning to get a glimpse into the reason for Kerr Murray's depression. Lord Dunsmore was like many of his peers. His expectations stemmed from his sense of obligation, not from a genuine concern for his son's welfare. The dominie had seen many such men. He sipped his wine and carefully chose his words.

"Lord Dunsmore, I have no complaints against your son. I have concerns. He has been a guest in my home several times, and is a frequent visitor to my office at the college. His manners are impeccable. His conversation is always carefully controlled. But I perceive a deep turmoil in his spirit. It is not uncommon in a youth his age. It can be a sign of impending trouble, however. I simply want you to be forewarned so that you may act accordingly."

"You may be assured of that, sir. I will have a conversation with Edmund. I will send my coach for him this evening. He will overcome this 'turmoil', as you name it. He is progressing academically and he will progress spiritually as well. You have my assurance. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention." Lord Dunsmore rose and extended his soft hand to the man across his heavy desk. "Please excuse me but I have an engagement soon in another part of the city."

Vicar Cushing rose and accepted the handshake. He finished his glass of sherry and departed the library of his host. The hall echoed with his footsteps as Joseph escorted him to the front door and handed the dominie his hat and cape. Sighing as he contemplated his lack of success, the slight man walked over the threshold and into the waiting coach.

Inside the library Lord Dunsmore gritted his teeth and downed another glass of sherry. He instructed Joseph to send Henry and the small carriage to Oxford to capture his son and return him to the house. He also instructed Joseph to call for his closed coach immediately and then climbed the wide stairs. He called for his valet Morris to help him dress for his audience with Sir James Alford concerning the betrothal of their two children. His mind worked on composing the best argument that he could construct.

Two days later Edmund waited in his cold dark room. Emma had lighted the candle and brought him fresh water and clean towels. He extinguished the candle, preferring the darkness. It was easier to hide in the darkness, though over the years, like his mother's stone, he had become very good at hiding in plain sight. He had learned to control his facial expressions and to a large extent his expressive eyes as well. He had become a gifted actor. His chosen weapon against the world was his biting words, full of venom and judgment.

He could be warm and charming with those whom he trusted, but these men were few. Calvin Cushing remained his closest friend. The youth was sedate and naturally moral. Like Edmund he shrank from obscenity and all coarseness. Together the two young men tried to find their way in the rowdy and somewhat promiscuous company of their peers.

He heard the heavy front door open and knew that his father had arrived. He could also hear the downstairs maid Evelyn setting the table for them. Two sets of plates and bowls, glasses and tableware. A large expanse of dark wood between them. A silver candelabra in the center throwing light upon the two carefully controlled faces. Silence pounding in their ears. Sighing, Edmund turned from the window and crossed the floor as the summons echoed off of the dark paneled walls.

His father was standing before the fireplace with a snifter of brandy in his hand. From the slight unsteadiness in that hand Edmund surmised that this snifter was not the first and probably his father was well on the way to being intoxicated. Lord Dunsmore became even more morose and bitter when he had taken too much alcohol.

Edmund had quickly learned that the best course was to pretend compliance and then dismiss the entire discourse. His father would not remember tomorrow and he could also forget the argument. Except for the damage done to his sensitive soul.

Standing just inside the library door he waited for his father's tirade to begin. He had known as soon as Henry entered his Oxford room that a confrontation was imminent. He quickly reviewed his behavior over the preceding weeks and come to the conclusion that the cause of the summons was unknown to him.

He cleared his throat to make his presence known. His father stiffened his spine and slowly turned to face him. Edmund was startled at the pallid mask that stared back at him. His eyes widened in surprise before he could bring the expression under control. His father saw the widening and a humorless smile lifted his full lips. He downed the brandy and poured another large amount into the snifter.

"Come in, my son. Sit down. Here." Lord Dunsmore pulled a chair out of position and indicated that his son sit there. Isolated from its fellows it now resembled a chair of inquisition. All of Edmund's defenses were alerted and he carefully sat on the edge of the chair watching his father suspiciously.

The older man circled his son, continuing to sip the brandy as his eyes focused on the tall youth who grasped the chair's arms nervously. Again he smiled the humorless smile and the hair on Edmund's neck rose with fright. In the firelight his father looked menacing and powerful. His quiet deliberative manner unsettled the youth as familiar raving would not have done.

"I entertained a friend of yours." Edmund's eyes flickered and Lord Dunsmore's full lips lifted in a sneer. His entire body exuded power. "The Vicar Cushing. Apparently you and his son are intimate. You have been a guest in his house. He reported that you conducted yourself in an acceptable manner. However, he seems to believe that you are in "spiritual turmoil", as he put it. Are you?"

Edmund knew that his father was asking the question rhetorically and had no genuine interest in his spiritual agonies. So his answer was equally superficial. "I have asked questions concerning Anglican doctrine. My philosophy master assigned the class a paper asking us to compare and contrast the Anglican teaching with another denomination. I simply sought information for that assignment." His eyes did not betray any deeper reason for his questions and his father's face relayed his acceptance of the answer given.

John Murray finished the snifter of brandy in his hand and walked unsteadily to the decanter. He poured another large amount into the glass, carelessly splashing droplets onto the polished surface of the side table. Edmund watched worriedly. He knew that the inquisition was not over and that the real reason for the summons was now to begin.

His father slowly turned to face his son. He took another swallow of the brandy. When he spoke his words were slightly slurred as the large amount of alcohol he had consumed coursed through his system. "I saw James Alford at the end of last week. He is not anxious to accept a betrothal between you and his daughter Guinevere. He is concerned about your, shall we say, unusual parentage? "

Edmund kept his face carefully bland but he could not keep the flicker of fire from his large dark eyes. His father saw the flash and grinned crookedly. Cruelly he pursued his course.

"He is leery of having mixed-blood grandchildren. He feels that he needs to protect his daughter from your, shall we say, corruption? She has expressed her reservations about allowing intimacies from one so, ah, dark?" Here the drunken man looked pointedly at his son's face, letting his gaze fall upon his thick black hair then drop to the brown hands gripping the chair arms.

At his father's look Edmund relaxed his grip and continued to keep his face carefully bland. His eyes flamed with the insults. His lips curled in satisfaction, the Earl drained the brandy and staggered back to the decanter on the side table. Much of the brandy splashed onto the white table covering and stained the cloth a dark bloody red.

"But we did come to an agreement. At the Oxford ball this year you will be her escort. The betrothal will be announced a week later. It is time that you make the connections to assume your position. You have been a youth long enough. You must become a man. Your graduation from Oxford in a few weeks is assured. I have engaged a tutor to instruct you in the proper etiquette required of an escort to a lady of breeding, such as Miss Alford. I've also engaged a dance instructor. You will be tutored in your room at Oxford every Thursday after the evening meal. The tutors will report your progress to me. Do you understand?"

Edmund silently nodded. Guinevere Alford was a lily white doll. All her life she had been prepared to become the wife of a man with equally high-placed connections. Her parents reflected this ambition as they purposefully named her after the queen in the Arthurian legends. Many of Edmund's peers secretly planned to claim her as their prize.

Though he had seen her from a distance a number of times and actually met her after the Christmas service the previous year he was not favorably impressed. Deep inside his heart he trembled at the thought of being forced to marry her and spend his life bound to the shallow, self-absorbed and haughty woman.

He raised his gaze to meet his father's eyes and saw that the older man was trembling. Clenching his jaw, the Earl carefully walked to the library door. He leaned to one side as the alcohol impaired his nervous system. Edmund watched as he reached for the library's sliding doors and missed the catch.

With a shaking hand his father tried again and successfully pulled the heavy oak doors open enough to pass through. He turned his tall body to the side and slipped through the narrow opening, staggering and nearly falling as his heavy coat impeded his motion. Safely through he leaned on Joseph's arm and entered the dining room. Edmund followed slowly behind his father and reluctantly entered the dining room to face his father's drunken silence over the polished walnut table.

Edmund easily learned all the manners needed to perform to expectations. His dance instructor was pleased at his natural grace and his etiquette tutor was equally pleased. The reports that filtered to his father left no reason for displeasure and Edmund prepared himself for the trial to come on the first of May.

He was measured and fitted for a stunning costume. He stood patiently as the cloth was marked and pinned to flatter his tall, slender frame. He endured the endless parade of embellishments as his father chose the items calculated to display his son in the best possible light. He felt like a courtesan being prepared for the highest bidder but hid his true feelings behind a mask of controlled blandness. The men fluttering about him considered his behavior to be typical for one of his class and made no comment.

Henry dressed him on the evening of May first and as he descended the staircase in his father's house the entire household stood to express their admiration for his splendor. In his heart he was writhing in embarrassment and outrage but his face betrayed no trace of his true feelings.

The deep royal blue coat fit his body perfectly and his naturally graceful way of walking set the tail of the coat to swaying with a calculated attractiveness. His shirt was a snowy white silk and the lace-trimmed stock spilled below his throat and over his upper chest. It was held in place by a large cushion-cut blue sapphire. His brocade waistcoat was a sky blue color.

His legs were covered by a darker blue velour and his finely shaped calves were encased in white silken hose. His black patent leather shoes shone and the buckles gleamed. His short black hair had been brushed and dressed and it shone in the dim light. He looked every inch the pampered son of an English lord. He hated it. But deep inside his heart where no one could ever see he was Caramingo of the Cherokee, and he was keeping his promise to survive.

Inside the coach John Murray left no doubt of his expectations. The performance was already scripted and all the puppet was expected to do was to dance to the pull of the strings. The puppet's dead eyes relayed nothing but compliance. The Earl sighed in relief.

Edmund Kerr Murray entered the ballroom with all the careful insouciance expected of a member of his class. His head was raised and his dark eyes reflected no emotion other than haughtiness. His gloved hands were relaxed at his sides. He walked gracefully beside his resplendent father.

Coming through the throng was a thin man dressed entirely in wine velour. Beside him was his doll-like daughter Guinevere. She was dressed in a sky blue silk carefully chosen to compliment Edmund's costume. The element of farce was not lost upon John Murray's son and he choked back an unexpected desire to laugh. His graceful bow brought gasps from several nearby young ladies who immediately blushed various shades of red at their unladylike responses. Donning his carefully practiced persona, the tall young man lightly lifted Miss Alford's right hand and brought it to his lips.

James Alford proudly introduced his daughter to the son of Lord Dunsmore. Edmund looked down into Guinevere's light blue eyes and gave her a practiced smile. She responded with a practiced smile of her own. Again Edmund choked back a laugh. The performance was proceeding perfectly. Both fathers beamed their approval. The orchestra began a reel.

"Shall we dance, Miss Alford?" Edmund extended his gloved hand and Guinevere placed her child-sized hand in his. The two glided onto the dance floor and disappeared into the swirl of dancers. Both John Murray and James Alford retired to the refreshments to further discuss the time of the betrothal announcement. On the dance floor the two young people continued to play their parts.

Edmund danced with relaxed ease. His partner had also been well taught but the disparity in their heights made the first few steps difficult as they had to adjust their steps to match. Then the music took them and the rhythm naturally flowed through Edmund's body. They were soon being watched by the entire company.

Several of Edmund's schoolmates wore uncomfortable looks of envy and despair. Many young ladies wore the same looks until their tutoring forced their faces into careful blandness. At the edge of the room some of the older members of the group glanced at each other and nodded. Many others looked at each other with outrage at the spectacle of blonde, petite Guinevere Alford in the arms of the tall half-breed bastard of John Murray.

None of the expressions were lost on Edmund Murray. He hated, always, to be the center of attention. His nature was to be self-deprecating and humble. He steeled himself and pushed the uncomfortable emotions deep into his secret heart. As he moved around the dance floor he tried to keep his attention on his tiny partner and the smile painted on her face like the smile of a china doll. There was no humor in her light blue eyes, no affection for him. Only an awareness of the audiences' attentiveness and her father's approval. A chill passed through his body at her cold and calculating heart.

When the dance ended he bowed to Guinevere and escorted her to one of the fine chairs placed around the room. As she daintily sat down he volunteered to bring her a glass of punch. When she nodded her assent he gratefully left her side and proceeded to the refreshment table. On his way he happened to meet the eyes of a tall, mousy girl who blushed scarlet as he passed. His lips curled as an idea entered his mind. He carefully took a glass of punch and turned. As he passed the girl he stopped and faced her.

"Would you care to dance the next reel with me?" he asked.

The uncomfortable girl raised shocked light brown eyes to his face. The blush deepened as she gave her answer. "Yes," she whispered.

Edmund gave her a sunny smile and replied, "I shall return when the music begins. Miss...?"

"Stanley. Beatrice Stanley." So this was the girl that his schoolmates called Beast, cruelly using her name against her. She was not beautiful or accomplished but her father was a very successful cotton merchant and her inheritance would be sizeable. Edmund smiled.

"Miss Stanley." Edmund gave her a slight bow and continued to Guinevere's side where he found her being entertained by a schoolmate, Peter Collins. He gave her the punch and remained standing quietly by her side until the orchestra began to play another reel. Then he bowed, excused himself, and stepped to Beatrice Stanley's side.

The tall girl was dressed most unbecomingly in a yellowish green gown that hung on her thin frame and did not complement her skin, eyes or hair. She wore a large necklace of blood-red garnets that did not match the gown in any way. Her gloved hands were damp with nervousness and Edmund secretly cringed as he took her onto the dance floor. But the outraged look on his father's face fueled his rebellion and he swept her into the reel.

She was a poor dancer but Edmund was so skilled that she began to relax and enjoy the feel of his hands as they held hers. She gathered her courage and gazed at his handsome face and large dark eyes. A totally unfamiliar warmth spread over her body. She gasped in surprise. When the reel ended and he placed his hand on her elbow to guide her to her seat she quivered with unexpected emotion. He left her with a graceful bow as she sat fanning herself with more than affectation.

Edmund quickly wove his way through the crowd to the side of Anora Masterson. Joey's sister was a year younger and had the same sunny personality that Joey had displayed. Edmund had met her the one time that he had been invited for the weekend at Joey's house the autumn before his violent death. He liked her and she felt the same.

He bowed and extended his hand. She looked into his eyes and smiled, then rose to accompany him to the dance floor. Though not much taller than Guinevere, she matched Edmund's steps easily and they twirled pleasantly around the floor. Her smile was genuine and her blue eyes, so like Joey's, sparkled with joy and humor as his had done. Edmund's dark eyes began to sparkle too. As the dance ended and he escorted her off the floor he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. His father's grip brooked no resistance. Edmund followed his father as discreetly as possible from the ballroom and into a small alcove.

Standing so close that his alcohol-tinged breath fanned Edmund's black hair the Earl of Dunsmore berated his son. His voice was low but the biting words stung as they were meant to do. Though not unexpected the vehemence caused Edmund to blush in anger. His hands clenched into fists. When he parted his lips to defend himself the Earl slapped him into silence.

"Now get back onto that dance floor with Miss Alford. Your conduct is verifying all the negative opinions held by many in this room. Your reputation is being ruined and all of my connections cannot repair the damage if you continue in this outrageous manner! Your entire future is at stake."

"Yes, I agree, it is." Edmund pushed past his father into the hall. He overheard part of a conversation as he passed the partially opened doors into the garden. He caught his name and silently slipped behind a tall topiary beside the door. There he listened to the two men whose voices were low and confidential.

"Murray has made a careful match there, though, Timmons."

"I agree, it is a brilliant move. But I object to his lack of conscience. I understand that he wants to preserve his family's hold on the title. He should have thought of that before he produced the bastard. The boy just is not suitable for the honor. He's part Indian, for heaven's sake!"

"I counseled Murray years ago to marry Julianna Stapleton. No one knew about the little bastard at that time. Her father pressed for the match. But Murray would have none of it. He could have had an acceptable son or two by now and assured the succession. "

There was silence as the two men sipped their brandy. Edmund stood behind the evergreen clenching his jaw and digging his balled fists into his upper thighs. The hot blood of anger and dishonor flooded his face. He forced his breathing to steady before the men could hear his rapid breathing.

"I think that he always felt somehow unworthy of an English wife after he returned from the colonies. Of course he knew about the boy. That may be the reason. But he could have completely forgotten about the little savage instead of dragging him here to live among us like he was an equal."

"The boy is very bright though. My son is the same age and reports that Kerr, that's what he calls himself at Oxford, is near the top of every class except mathematics. And he is the top scholar in the classics. His philosophy master is impressed by his grasp of the subject though somewhat dismayed at his irreverent attitude. He writes exceptionally well. He is an excellent fencer, plays top-notch cricket, rides well, shoots well, seems to be a natural athlete."

Here the two men chuckled. "What you'd expect from a wild savage, Randolph. I wonder if he scalped anyone before Murray dragged him onto the ship? And I've always wondered how Dunsmore managed to get him to wear clothes! " The men laughed again. Behind the topiary Edmund ground his teeth together in rage.

"Well Timmons, I once saw a circus that had trained monkeys. If you can train a monkey to wear clothes, you ought to be able to train a savage!"

Edmund stood silently behind the door as the men continued to laugh. He could no longer remain hidden. The desire to rush at the two men and strike them over and over caused him to shake uncontrollably. He ducked into the small alcove that his father had vacated and willed his breathing to slow. As he stood in the shadows he became aware of another conversation in the hall. Reluctantly he listened to the words.

"James Alford just received word today that his new shipment safely reached the colonies. He lost only twenty percent in this crossing and stands to make a substantial profit."

"He has three ships in the trade doesn't he?"

"Yes, one for each leg of the triangle."

"Canny businessman, James Alford. His daughter and that Murray boy will have an easy life. Ironic that a savage should live in ease on the backs of niggers, though. Quite a coup for John Murray."

Edmund stood rigid behind the damask curtains of the alcove. He could hear the music from the ballroom and the happy voices through the wall. Slaves! James Alford enriched himself and his precociously named daughter through the despair and death of enslaved men, women and children. It was unbearable! And his father not only knew but approved.

That knowledge sent the young Cherokee man spiraling down into a well of despair. He stripped the beautiful blue coat from his tall body and flung it onto the floor. He pulled the sapphire pin from the lacy stock and dropped it beside the coat. The silken stock followed. The sky blue waistcoat fell from his limp hand. The buckled patent leather shoes were kicked from his slender feet and the silk stockings wadded into balls and stuffed into the shoes.

Barefooted and stripped to as little clothing as modesty demanded Edmund Kerr Murray strode through the garden doors, passed the two surprised gentlemen still discussing his parentage and disappeared into the damp English darkness.

An hour later John Murray, Earl of Dunsmore, found his escaped son in his Oxford room. When Robert Timmons came to him and told him of the young man's headlong flight in his nearly naked condition, Lord Dunsmore noticeably paled. A butler came into the ballroom with Edmund's cast off clothing that had been found in the hall alcove. Numb with embarrassment and shame the Earl thoughtlessly took the articles. Then he turned and walked out the front door, the sound of whispers spreading all around him.

Edmund was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the dark room. His feet were cut and bleeding. His breathing was normal but his mind whirled with the words that he had overheard. The deep wounds the conversations inflicted sapped his strength. He was trying to think, but his mind was too weary. Midnight had passed and the night was winging toward the dawn. He felt himself carried by the fleeing minutes down a path still unseen, unable to resist.

He heard heavy footsteps coming down the corridor. Swaying on his feet his father stood in the open doorway. The tall man stepped into the room and closed the door. The pale moonlight did not provide enough light for the two men to see each other's faces so the conversation had the unreal quality of a nightmare.

"Why, Edmund? Give me an answer and I will leave you to your darkness."

"Because of what I am, and what you cannot accept. Because of what you are. Because of what you are trying to make of me. Because of James Alford and his little princess."

"I worked very hard to arrange that marriage for you. And you have thrown the offering back into my face. Why?"

"I have reasons."

In the darkness Edmund could hear his father's breathing. He could tell that the older man had consumed too much alcohol and was having difficulty standing. Rising in the darkness Edmund placed his desk chair beside his father and moved away before the older man could touch him. The silence continued as John Murray sank into the chair with a groan.

The slow minutes passed. Edmund continued to sit on the floor. Finally, Lord Dunsmore spoke into the stillness. "Stay here with me."

There was a trace of longing in the voice, as though the man had begun to understand that he had lost his son forever. The knowledge that his father needed him made Edmund catch his breath with a quick rush of emotion. Then the rational part of his mind took control. He realized that the need would be fleeting and denied as soon as the alcohol was released from his father's system. There could be no closeness between them, ever.

In the silence Edmund heard his father's ragged breathing. He would need help getting to bed. Quietly rising, Edmund stepped around his father and into the hall. He returned thirty minutes later with Morris. Together the two men were able to walk Lord Dunsmore down the dark hall, across the grounds and into his bedroom. There Edmund left his father muttering incoherently in Morris' familiar care.

Edmund Kerr Murray graduated with honors from Oxford four weeks later. He embraced Calvin Cushing in a final farewell and followed Henry down the stairs for the last time. In his mind he could hear Joey Masterson's bubbling laugh.

The commons teemed with young men and their families. Several waved and Kerr Murray waved back for the last time. Vicar Cushing stepped forward and shook his dark slender hand. The dominie's light brown eyes held Edmund's for many seconds. Then he released the young man's hand and nodded.

The coach ride back to Lord Dunsmore's house was easy. Edmund entered the silent dark house and began to climb the wide staircase. The library doors opened and John Murray stepped into the hall. "Edmund, a moment, if you please."

The tall dark man stopped on the stairs, bowed his head for several seconds, then turned and descended the stairway. He entered the library and found his father staring out of the tall windows onto the sunny garden. On the polished desk rested the speckled rock.

As Edmund stood waiting, the Earl of Dunsmore slowly turned to face his son. He held out a thin envelope to Edmund. "A small remuneration for your journey. A gift. Please take it."

Edmund carefully took the envelope from his father's hand. "Thank you, sir."

The Earl swallowed and sat at his desk, his hands gently caressing one another. The gesture was familiar to the son. He had often remarked to himself that his father, having no one else to love, loved himself very well. Now the gesture seemed pathetic. He fought the sigh that lifted his chest.

"The ceremony was impressive. You sang beautifully."

"You were there?" Edmund's voice registered surprise.

"I was. It is not every day that a man has a son graduate with honors from Oxford."

The two men faced each other and the habit of silence limited their interaction. Both could feel the distress of the other but neither could address or acknowledge the emotion.

"You did yourself proud, Edmund. You have an education that no one can ever take from you. I understand from Emma and Henry that you are nearly packed and ready to leave. You have taken all of your books? Do you have your favorites from this library?"

Edmund nodded and remained silent. He had taken nothing else from the house where he had spent nearly ten years of his life. It remained as he had found it. It was as though he had never been there at all.

"Will you tell me where you are bound? Will I ever know that you are safe, that you are content?"

"I am returning to my home. If you wish, I will send a letter from Philadelphia. That is all that I know now. I am seeking my heritage, that which I know in my heart I am fitted to receive. I never was at home here. I think that you know that, if you will admit it." Edmund's dark eyes searched his father's. Their icy blue color displayed little emotion, but in the depths Edmund could see the anguish that his father kept severely under control.

Sighing, the young Cherokee thought of how different their lives could have been if his father had overcome the press of duty and obligation. He was grateful that though wounded, he had not been crushed by the same duty. A feeling of freedom began to grow deep in his heart. His dark eyes began to glow.

John Murray saw the glow and felt the pain of the parting. Because of the path he had chosen years ago his son would never know the love of his father. He had robbed them both. Now he must face his slow decline into old age, alone. The title that he had worked so diligently all his life to preserve would go to his nephew, not his son. And in the wilds of Kentucky that son would live his life, forever apart from his father's life. They would not write. There was no connection to maintain. It was an accident of birth, and that was all.

In his mind Lord Dunsmore traveled back the more than twenty years to see himself as he strode confidently across the wild, untamed wilderness and saw for the first time a slim Indian woman with a small boy at her side. Talota. How like her Edmund looked! The Kentucky breeze ruffled his coppery red hair and the pretty young woman looked at him with curious dark eyes. Then it all began.

The Earl closed his eyes. He could hear his son breathing softly. Reaching out, he took the speckled rock in his hand and ran his fingers over the smooth surface. He opened his eyes and reached his closed hand across the desk to his son. When Edmund lifted his dark hand, Lord Dunsmore released the rock and it fell soundlessly into his son's palm. His blue eyes locked for the last time onto his son's dark brown, and then he waved his hand, finally releasing his son from the long years of captivity.


	4. Chapter 4

Daybreak

The _Lady Grey _was a beautiful ship. She carried a cargo of cloth bound for the markets of Philadelphia. She was not large but was of a size to be comfortable for the passengers and crew. Besides himself Mingo saw that there were two other passengers, a newly married couple sailing from England to start a new life in Virginia. So newly married that they still called each other by the title and last name, Mingo was amused watching them as they began to build their lives together.

Mr. and Mrs. Miller were younger than he was and full of hopeful dreams. When they met just before boarding the _Lady Grey _Mingo introduced himself using his Cherokee name, thinking that the couple may as well receive a true understanding of their fellow passenger. Now if he could only reconcile his recent experiences with his past inside his own mind and find a measure of quiet within his own soul.

Henry had insisted on unloading his possessions without any help, then impulsively gripped both of young Murray's arms in a gesture of affectionate farewell. For the first and only time the older man held the younger man's eyes. The servant then climbed into the Earl's coach and rode away without any backward glance.

Mingo was surprised to feel a sense of loss as he watched the coach roll away from the Bristol dock. He felt the lump rise in his throat as the full realization of his choices entered his mind. He did not regret refusing his marriage to Guinevere Alford. He did not regret denying his father's title. He would not ever miss the life he could have lived as a titled Englishman. But he did miss Calvin Cushing and the comradeship of his few friends at Oxford.

And, he admitted somewhat reluctantly, he did miss his father. Or rather, the father that Lord Dunsmore should have been. The familiar longing for a father could cripple him if he dwelled on the loss. Standing on the dock before the ship that would take him back to his homeland, he decided that he would not allow himself to be crippled. Raising his dark head proudly, he gripped two of his bags in his hands and prepared to board the clipper. That was when he met the Millers.

The voice that hailed him was pleasantly pitched. He turned and saw the young couple moving toward him. The young man was nearly a head shorter than he was and slight. His honey-colored hair waved around his ears and over his high brow. His wife was only a few inches shorter than her husband with the same honey-colored hair. But instead of blue eyes like his hers were a honey-colored brown. Both of them wore an expression that relayed excitement tinged with uncertainty.

Mingo extended his hand and introduced himself. Both sets of eyes widened as they contemplated their journey in the company of a Cherokee from the wild lands of America. But Mingo was so gracious and he made his voice so warm that their unease quickly vanished and the three of them walked up the gangplank and began their new friendship.

The clipper bobbed gracefully over the slight swells. The cool fresh wind washed over Mingo's tall body and cleansed away the feel and smell of London. Unfortunately, the memories of the first crossing remained painfully clear. Not ready to deal with them, he pushed them back into the far recesses of his mind.

The motion of the ship caused him to sway on the balls of his feet as he grasped the rigging in both hands. He enjoyed watching the sailors at their duties. The men worked together to keep the beautiful ship balanced on the sea. This crossing would be spent on the deck for hours at a time instead of hidden deep inside the ship's wooden hull. His pale brown skin would soon take on the hue of burnished leather in the sun and wind. Snatches of the Iliad and the Odyssey came into his mind and he amused himself reciting remembered passages. The sailors shook their heads and grinned at their unusual black-haired passenger.

The first few days out were choppy and all three passengers were seasick. Mingo attacked the problem by staying on deck as much as possible in the clean air, holding onto the railing when the nausea washed over him. The sailors told him that if he watched the horizon instead of the ship or the sea, the sickness would ease faster and he found them to be correct. The Millers stayed in their small cabin with basins held in their laps.

After a week the sea quieted and Mingo convinced the man and wife to accompany him topside. He told them to watch the horizon or the sky, and they began to lose their severe nausea. Twice Mrs. Miller had to rush to the side, but Mr. Miller endured the day without once emptying his stomach over the side. After he helped his wife to their cabin and laid her down, Mr. Miller returned topside to begin to get to know his fellow passenger better.

Mingo was standing beside the sailor at the wheel, asking questions about their course and the devices used to plot it. When he saw the other young man exit the hatchway he stepped down and walked to meet him, easily balancing his tall frame against the pitching of the sea.

"May I ask your first name? It seems a bit too formal to continue calling you Mister. Unless, of course, that is your desire?" Mingo asked diplomatically.

The blonde man smiled. "My name is Walter. My wife is Nancy. We are from the farming area near York. And you?"

As soon as he asked Walter Miller blushed from his blunder. He remembered that the man had already told them that he was a Cherokee from the colonies. Mingo smiled in amusement and answered. "I was born in Kentucky twenty-one years ago this November. I have just finished my education at Oxford. My father is English. I am returning to my homeland."

Walter looked puzzled. The tall man before him must have been a son of wealth. Mingo surmised that he was trying to understand how anyone would purposely give up a life of ease in London for the harsh life in colonial America. Before Walter could ask questions that he did not feel ready to answer, Mingo continued to question Walter.

"You and Nancy haven't been married long? Do you have relatives or friends in the colonies?"

Mingo had chosen well. A torrent of words poured from Walter as he told Mingo about his family, Nancy's family, and their dream of starting an inn near Williamsburg. With just a little prompting Walter told about the farm he had left, the town of York, and the entire history of his part of England. Unwisely he told Mingo about the stash of money he and Nancy guarded.

Mingo quickly placed his long forefinger over his own lips in a gesture of warning. Walter Miller blushed at his mistake and looked around to see who had overheard his statement. Mingo shook his head negatively and the younger man relaxed. He sighed deeply.

"I'm not very world-wise, as you can see." Walter looked deeply into Mingo's eyes and Mingo could see him weighing his fellow passenger's character. Mingo allowed the searching. Within a few seconds Walter blinked and sighed again.

"Your secret is safe with me. But you must be much more on guard or you and Nancy will arrive in the colonies without your savings, or you will be robbed soon after your arrival. It is best not to trust anyone until you know them well. And I do mean well." Mingo's experiences gave his words an additional bite and Walter looked at his new friend questioningly.

Mingo dropped his eyes and rose to stand fully exposed to the sea wind, grasping the nearby rigging. His mind was whirling and he needed time to quiet himself. Walter continued to sit and watch the horizon, now beginning to gain a rosy glow as the sun began its final descent into the west.

Nancy stayed on deck with them almost the whole next day. Mingo discovered that Walter had little education and volunteered to tutor him in the classics. Walter agreed heartily and was an apt pupil, obviously enjoying the world opening before him.

Mingo chose to begin with Cervantes' story about the adventures of Don Quixote because of the action and because of the underlying messages. Nancy sat close beside Walter sewing a skirt for herself. The sea air brought color to all their faces and their companionship warmed their hearts. Though only two years apart, the three had vastly different life experiences. But their close association brought easy friendship. The crew enjoyed listening to Mingo's instruction and Walter's hesitant reading. It was a happy ship, the _Lady Grey._

By the next week Walter and Nancy were trying to induce Mingo to stay in Williamsburg and be a partner in their inn. Though Mingo had no desire to be an innkeeper and kept reminding the two of his plans to travel inland, they mentioned their hopes that Mingo would join them at least twice a day. Twice a day he smilingly refused.

He had purchased a small chess set from a shop near the dock before he sailed and he taught both Walter and Nancy how to play. Several of the crew also asked to be taught. The captain already knew how to play and challenged Mingo to a game one evening after the meal.

The two men were well matched and the game continued for several hours. The captain had a mathematical mind and Mingo lost the game. He laughed good-naturedly and rose to retire to his own small cabin. The captain offered a snifter of brandy, extending the glass with the full expectation that Mingo would accept. Reluctantly he did. The captain gestured to a well-proportioned chair and Mingo sat down cautiously. He was suddenly suspicious of the captain's motives. The captain correctly read his expression and sat before his passenger in total silence. After several minutes he spoke.

"You are the son of Lord Dunsmore, correct?" The captain's question was completely unexpected. Mingo knew that he did not resemble the Earl in any way and he could not understand how the captain could have guessed. He looked at the older man several seconds before replying.

"That seems an odd question. I am Mingo, an American Indian. Why do you suppose that I have English blood?"

The captain nodded. "You are right to be suspicious. Never let your guard down, son. The world is a dangerous place. I know who you are because Lord Dunsmore told me. He knew of your plan to sail for the colonies and asked the booking agent to put you on my ship. He and I have known each other for years. He wanted you to be safe."

Mingo digested the information in silence. There were two possible reasons for Lord Dunsmore's interference. One, he couldn't stop himself from manipulating one last event in his son's life. Or two, the man cared for his son's safety and knew Edmund would not take his advice. In his secret heart Mingo hoped that it was the second reason, but his mind admitted that it was probably the first.

"I also have a substantial amount of money to be placed in the Philadelphia bank where the Earl maintains an account. It is to be entered in your name. He asked me to inform you that it is to be used for whatever you see fit. A predetermined amount will be deposited each year for your use. You may leave it there, take it with you to Kentucky, spend every penny or give it away. He wants you to have it as your right. Do you understand?"

Mingo clenched his teeth to keep himself under control. It was plainly a bribe, meant to remind him of what he had given away by refusing the title. He sat silently with bowed head.

The captain, several years older, understood the young man's reluctance to bind himself to his father. Captain Dary had known Lord Dunsmore for years, ever since the young John Murray had crossed to the colonies more than twenty years ago. The Earl was a man of great self-control, ambitious and determined.

The son was nothing like the father, and for this the captain was grateful. He liked the young Cherokee very much, seeing in the young man a generous and honorable nature. He finished his brandy and rose, indicating that it was time for his guest to retire. Mingo copied his host and walked to the door. He turned and thanked the captain for the game, opened the door and was gone into the starry night.

In his own cabin Mingo sat in the darkness for several hours, wrestling with his emotions. He was variously angry, embarrassed, puzzled, and tempted. The money could go a long way in helping Walter and Nancy buy and run their inn in Williamsburg. But if he took the money, or any portion of it, it seemed to him that he was admitting to his father that the money was of value to him.

He was also concerned that somehow his father would use that knowledge to attempt to manipulate him back to London and the title. So as the beautiful sea night deepened toward the new day, Mingo argued with his absent father as he had done in reality for the past ten years. It seemed that some habits were very hard to break.

The next day a severe storm boomed overhead and the three passengers sat together below decks, clutching anything that wasn't shifting as the ship thrashed through the sea. Nancy Miller was very pale and she kept swallowing to try and prevent herself from vomiting. The two men were little better.

All three had basins balanced on their laps in the event that they lost their battle with their stomachs. Finally Mingo decided that the cold stormy air would help his churning stomach and he rose to climb the ladder. The ship pitched and flung him against the rungs, bruising his shoulder and upper arm. He caught the ladder and pulled himself on deck.

All hands were engaged in battling the storm. They shortened sails and the captain himself had the wheel. Mingo slipped over the wet deck to the stairs that led to the wheel. He carefully climbed them to stand behind the captain facing the storm. The wild seas and fierce wind excited the young Indian and his eyes sparkled. He rocked with the ship as the _Lady Grey_ rode the waves. Captain Dary's hands gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles shone white in the diminished light.

The clouds were dark grey with a greenish hue and lightning forked continuously through their billowing mass. The charged air produced a glow of St. Elmo's fire around the masts, and Mingo gazed fascinated. He had read of the phenomenon but had never before seen it. The roar of the sea and the roar of the storm made it difficult to hear anything else, so Mingo remained quiet as the captain struggled to make himself heard over the storm. His shouted orders were relayed by the first mate to the crew, and they obeyed instantly.

The electrically charged air made Mingo's abundant hair fluff around his head as the wind blew the black locks. The sea spray stung his eyes and face but the entire experience was strangely exhilarating. Mingo was no stranger to storms, but he had never before experienced one that could claim his life. During his early childhood in Kentucky he had lived through one or more hail storms a year and several blizzards.

But this storm on the open sea was a killer and he knew it. He was a good swimmer but understood that being flung into the sea during such a violent storm would be disastrous. As he stood behind the captain he became aware that between shouted orders the man was alternately speaking encouraging words to his ship and asking protection from God. Frowning, the reluctant Anglican listened to the man's voice as he prayed to his God.

There was no hint of bargaining that Mingo had often heard from his schoolmates, especially before exams. There was no whining, no begging. He turned his head to better hear the snatches of prayer. The captain spoke as one man spoke to another, with respect and trust. Mingo had never heard anyone pray like this. The Bible contained many examples of men praying to God, but he himself had never heard a living man pray in the same manner.

As the storm whistled around him the young Cherokee warehoused the experience to ponder it later. He continued to stand behind the captain on the bridge of the _Lady Grey_ until the clipper pulled free of the storm's greatest violence and entered calmer waters. Then he nodded to his exhausted captain and descended the stairs to the deck where the equally exhausted crew also nodded as he passed.

He found both Walter and Nancy retching into their basins and convinced them to at least hold onto the ladder to breathe fresh air. The smell of vomit in the close confines below deck caused Mingo's stomach to lurch and he pulled Walter to stand beside him at the base of the ladder. Once Walter stood steadily Mingo released his hold on the younger man and reached for Nancy. He pulled her up and supported her until she too was able to stand clutching the ladder. Then he walked into his own small cabin and shut the door. He needed to examine his experiences over the last few hours, alone.

The remainder of the passage was filled with gentler experiences. The three passengers joined the crew to watch dolphins flash through the ship's wake. Clouds formed fantastic shapes and the three friends spent hours fancifully assigning stories to their formations. They experienced two more storms but neither was as violent as the first. The crew visited with the three friendly young people and they each learned from the other.

Mingo continued with his lessons and both Walter and Nancy expanded their knowledge. They in turn explained their ideas for their inn and he made suggestions as he remembered the various inns that he knew. The young married couple listened carefully and when they were alone together incorporated Mingo's ideas into their own.

The Millers struggled to find a name for their inn. Nancy favored The White Dove but Walter argued that the name was too gentle. He favored The Wild Boar but Nancy complained that the name was too rough for the kind of establishment that she wanted. Finally they enlisted Mingo's help to break the impasse. He listened to their positions and then suggested The Amity House. Both Nancy and Walter liked the sound but puzzled over the name. When Mingo smiled and explained that "amity" meant peaceful relations and friendship the two looked at each other and nodded. It was perfect.

Once again the young couple tried to convince Mingo to join their enterprise. Again he politely refused. Each day as the _Lady Grey _slid closer to the North American continent Mingo's anticipated homecoming occupied more of his thoughts. His careful nature had his expedition already planned.

He would land in Philadelphia in late summer and travel as far south into Virginia as possible before the winter snow. He would stay the winter in the Virginia colony and then travel over the mountains as soon as the snow melted, arriving back in Kentucky by the next summer. He could offer his services to various shopkeepers and businessmen in exchange for lodging and food. He had decided not to touch the money his father offered, concluding that it was indeed a bribe. He was on his own and he would take care of himself.

The _Lady Grey_ neared the American continent in late July.Her passage had been swift. A few nights before she would dock in Philadelphia Captain Dary again invited the son of Lord Dunsmore into his cabin. The captain also invited the Millers for the evening meal. The four people enjoyed a good meal and each other's company for several hours. Then the Millers thanked the captain for the delicious meal and the safe passage and excused themselves.

Mingo rose to follow them but the captain held out his hand in a gesture of delay. Mingo sat in the comfortable chair, crossed his long legs and waited. Captain Dary brought two snifters of brandy, handing one to his guest and keeping one in his hand as he sat down opposite Mingo.

"The Millers are fine young people. I have a good feeling about them. I think that they are building a good life together. And what, may I ask, are your plans young Murray?"

Mingo sipped the brandy and considered his answer. Though he liked and trusted Captain Dary he remained reluctant to discuss his plans. When he raised his eyes to the captain's he found the older man gazing at him fondly from across the floor. The older man's obvious affection startled the young Cherokee and he blushed before he could control himself. The captain saw the quick deepening of color and smiled.

"I am not the Earl's agent, Edmund. I have no prearranged report to send to your father. He only asked that I report your safe passage. And I will do that for him, even if you object. What is between you and your father is none of my business, nor do I wish it to be."

"Would you carry a letter back to him from me, if I asked?"

"With pleasure. I am glad that you offer this. He is not a bad man, son. He has always been conflicted about his decision to leave the colony of Virginia when you were a boy. Duty is a driving force for your father." The captain noticed the scowl on the young man's face and understood the reason.

"I know that I don't have to tell you that. You must have had plenty of evidence during your stay in his house. But Lord Dunsmore is not heartless. Not really. He is a product of his birth, his position, and his own nature. He is not sensitive to anyone other than himself, either by nature or by choice. I never could decide which it was. It is not my place to judge. Not you, and not him."

"I do want to make an offer to you, however. I make at least one passage a year, and I always come into Philadelphia. If at any time you need my help, in any way for anything, I want you to ask. I am very fond of you, Edmund. I respect you, I honor you, and I care about you. And someday there may come a time that you need me. Will you accept my offer?"

Captain Dary's blue eyes looked full into Mingo's. The young man's suntanned face wore an expression of doubt. The captain remained silent and allowed his young guest to sort out his thoughts and emotions. After several seconds passed without any comment from Mingo the captain rose and spoke.

"Give me your answer before we dock. We should be in Philadelphia by day after tomorrow. Now it is late, and I must make a final inspection of the _Lady_ before I retire. Please excuse me, and good night."

The captain finished his brandy and set the glass on the polished dining table. He donned his hat then walked silently through the cabin door. Mingo continued to sit silently in the comfortable cabin, deep in thought. Then he too rose, set down his glass, and walked through the door to his own cabin where he spent most of the night in thought. As dawn neared he began his letter to his father. The sun brightened the small room with light before he finished and lay on his narrow bunk for a few hours of sleep.

The _Lady Grey_ docked mid-morning July 29th, 1766. The colony of Pennsylvania was prosperous and grateful for the end of the French and Indian War. Philadelphia was the largest city in the American colonies and Mingo stood in awe after he walked down the _Lady's _gangplank and onto the dock. The few memories that he had of his departure years before were painful and he did not allow them to fully form in his mind before he pushed them back down into the deep recesses of his soul.

He gave Captain Dary the letter to his father. Warmly he expressed his appreciation and acceptance of the captain's generous offer made two evenings previously. There was a feeling of security in knowing that Captain Dary would be available if for any reason Mingo needed help or advice. Before walking off the ship Mingo grasped the captain's hand in affectionate farewell and was surprised when the older man pulled him into a quick embrace. All the sailors stood at the rail and waved as he stepped off the _Lady_. He had been a favorite with everyone aboard and to a man they wished him all good things.

Beside him Walter and Nancy Miller stood with their hands clasped as they gazed at the beautiful city. The dock hands were piling the three passengers' belongings nearby, and the three friends slowly became aware of that fact and began to recover from their initial reaction to the City of Brotherly Love. The three friends had decided before leaving the ship that they would lodge together for at least the first few days until they got their bearings and decided how to proceed with their respective journeys.

While Mingo guarded their belongings the young couple investigated the various nearby inns and reserved two rooms at the one they felt was most promising. They returned and engaged a wagon to transport their belongings and Mingo's to their lodgings, unpacked and excitedly asked their friend if he would like to share a walk with them to investigate the city.

So in the late afternoon the three friends set off to explore. They watched the ships in the harbor and the activity around them. They strolled through the nearby market, and Walter purchased a paper cone of roasted almonds coated with sugar which the three shared as they walked. An unfamiliar sound drew the three to a large building near the docks. There freight was being loaded on wagons to be taken to various points throughout the city and the colonies.

The unusual sound they heard was a bullwhip being cracked to maneuver the harnessed mules and oxen. Fascinated, the three friends watched the teamsters as they snapped the whips over, around and behind their teams. Mingo at once understood the value of the whip as a weapon and decided to find a way to induce a teamster to teach him. Boldly he walked to the nearest man and asked. The burly man dismissed the dark youth without a glance.

Rebuffed but not dismayed, Mingo continued asking until a middle-aged man with bright red hair agreed to show him the basics. He beckoned the young man out of the building to an open area near the docks. There he set up several empty bottles that were scattered around and showed the youth how to position the whip and flip it with the wrist to make it hit a target. Mingo stood fascinated. The Millers quickly lost interest and informed Mingo of their intention to continue their walk. Mingo nodded absently and watched the teamster knock each bottle off its perch with the bullwhip. After several minutes he asked if he could try.

The teamster grinned and gave the young man his whip. Mingo carefully laid the whip out along the ground as he had been shown. The teamster backed away several yards. With a quick flip of his wrist the young Cherokee brought the whip whistling off the ground. The slender tasseled end caught him behind the right ear and opened an inch-long gash on his neck. With a quick exclamation of surprise and pain Mingo dropped the whip.

The teamster laughingly showed his pupil his mistake and bade him try again. As the blood ran down the side of his neck Mingo tried again, and this time the whip whistled through the air and cracked near one of the targets. Eyebrows raised in happy amazement, Mingo turned to the teamster and grinned.

Shaking his head, the red-haired man walked to his wagon, reached into it, and pulled out a duplicate whip. He placed the new whip in Mingo's hand and took his own. After explaining how to keep the leather supple, the teamster turned to take possession of his wagonload of supplies. At that point Mingo realized that the whip in his hand was now his. He quickly strode to the teamster's side.

"What do I owe you for this whip?" he asked, reaching into his pocket.

The teamster turned and looked up into the dark eyes above him. He smiled.

"Son, I've never seen anyone crack a whip on the second try. You are gifted. You owe me nothing. You've already paid me by giving me a story to entertain my fellow teamsters for years to come. Take the whip with my blessing." He turned to his team, then stopped and returned to Mingo's side. "And son, always remember that this whip is a weapon, no less than a pistol or knife. Respect it as such."

Mingo stood still amid all the activity around him. He realized the potential of the gift that had just been given to him. Carefully he coiled the whip in his hands, then saluted the teamster as the man walked out of the building with his wagon and into the nearby alley. The teamster saluted in return and was gone.

A week later the Millers with Mingo as companion left the thriving city traveling south. Walter and Nancy had convinced Mingo that there was no reason that he should not accompany them on their trip to Williamsburg. They had not abandoned the idea of making Mingo their partner, though the young Cherokee continued to deny any desire to join them.

The summer days were hot and very steamy, making both animals and people uncomfortable. Though all three dunked themselves daily in the abundant streams and rivers, they remained damp and sticky day after day. Clouds of insects constantly surrounded them, the incessant buzzing creating frayed nerves so that by day's end all anyone wanted was to sleep.

The Millers slept in the wagon bed with a blanket stretched over the wagon sides to try and dissuade the mosquitoes. Mingo slept beneath the wagon on the ground. All night he could hear the mules swishing their tails and flipping their manes to try and dispel the clouds of insects attacking their tender noses, eyes, and ears. He couldn't help but contrast his present surroundings with those he had left behind in London.

Too sticky hot to sleep, the young Cherokee lay remembering what he successfully pushed from his mind during the busy times of the day. People, events and the connected emotions pressed forward in his mind until they could not be denied. He resolved none of them, and their continued presence wore on his mind until his temper snapped. He would rise and walk alone in the still summer nights until he was exhausted and could sleep a few short hours before the sun brought a new day's trials. His fellow travelers noticed his distress but did not understand the reason. Neither they nor he had the maturity or experience to know how to broach the subject so the distress remained. The relationship was beginning to suffer.

Finally Mingo's foul temper exploded through his careful restraints. The mules stubbornly pulled the wagon into a deep mud hole that the men had tried to guide them around. Nancy, slapping mosquitoes and dripping sweat, berated them for their carelessness. Walter, also dripping sweat and itching from a dozen mosquito bites himself, snapped back. The words stung more than he intended and Nancy began to cry. Standing up to his ankles in the mud hole Mingo was an irritated witness. He attempted to correct Walter for his treatment of his wife and the young Englishman angrily turned on his friend.

"You keep out of this! I don't need you tellin' me how to talk to my own wife."

"She doesn't belong to you, Walter. She's not your property."

"What did you say?"

"She is your wife; you don't own her."

The two young men squared off, facing each other in the hot sunlight with the sweat running down both of their engorged faces. Nancy stood in the shade nearby, continuing to cry quietly from heat, emotional distress and her two-month pregnancy.

Walter stared at the tall dark man before him. A suspicious look grew in his blue eyes and before his mind could assess his conclusion blurted out, "Do you own her then?"

Mingo's right fist dropped Walter where he stood. Nancy shrieked and ran to her husband lying bleeding in the Virginia mud. He sat up and glared at the Cherokee who stood over him, both hands balled into fists and his eyes on fire. The three tired young people glowered at each other in the hot sunlight. Mosquitoes buzzed around their faces, the hum further irritating their nerves.

Walter struggled to stand and pushed Nancy aside. He squared his shoulders and balled his fists. Mingo circled cautiously, all his training evident in his stance. His reach was several inches longer than Walter's, and when Walter's punch fell short Mingo lashed out and dropped his friend once again. At that point Nancy also dropped to the ground in a faint brought on by the heat, her condition and the violence she was helplessly witnessing.

Mingo rushed to her side and picked her up. He carried her to the deep shade of the nearby trees and laid her gently on the ground. Not knowing what to do, he stood and stared at her limp body. Behind him he could hear Walter struggling to rise. Several seconds passed until Walter knelt by his unconscious wife and bid Mingo bring the water bucket to him. Reaching his hand into the bucket Walter threw a handful of water into Nancy's face. She moaned and retched. Walter quickly turned her onto her side as her stomach emptied.

Mingo stood watching for several more seconds, then turned and pulled the mules from the mud and into the shade beside Nancy. He sat on the side of the wagon opposite from the Millers, understanding that they would want privacy. He could hear Nancy's voice whimpering and Walter's voice soothing her. Water splashed as Walter washed the blood from his sweaty face.

Mingo reached into the wagon and pulled out the gun he had purchased in Philadelphia. He pushed his way into the timber and disappeared. When he returned several hours later the Miller's were asleep before the fire. They had discovered that damp wood makes a thick smoke that discouraged insects. Mingo, remembering his Cherokee boyhood, quickly plucked and cleaned the small turkey that he had shot and spitted it to roast. He stirred the fire and added more seasoned wood to cook the meat.

He rubbed salt into the carcass and carefully placed it to roast. After an hour the fragrance wakened the Millers. They both sat up and saw Mingo sitting in the darkness several feet away from them. They looked at each other, then Walter rose and approached the brooding Cherokee.

"I was wrong to say what I did. I apologize. I know there is absolutely no reason to think that either you or Nancy has behaved wrong in any way. I'm sorry. Will you accept my apology?" Walter held out his right hand.

Mingo continued to sit where he was. His feelings had been terribly hurt by Walter's angry words and he was having difficulty accepting the apology. His own behavior that escalated the episode was a further embarrassment. Finally he glanced up into Walter's sincere face. He could see Nancy watching anxiously. Slowly he stood and took Walter's hand. The two young men stood for several seconds, then Walter smiled and released Mingo's hand. Nancy smiled too.

Walter glanced at his wife again. She nodded and he turned back to face Mingo. "Mingo, Nancy and I are expecting a child next spring. She told me while you were gone. That's why she's been so touchy. We're sorry for any upset we've caused you. We want to name the baby after you if it's a boy. Is that alright?"

Mingo's head jerked and he looked at his friends in complete surprise. "You would name your son Caramingo?"

Walter looked puzzled, then his face relaxed into a smile as he understood. "No, Mingo! Your English name. Edmund. Is that alright?"

Mingo blushed with his mistake, but the heavy darkness hid the red flush that covered his dark cheeks. Someone wanted to name a child after him. The honor was overwhelming. And of course they meant his English name--they were English! He understood that they meant no judgment about his parentage. A slow pleased smile began to spread across his handsome face. The Millers saw the smile and relaxed. The strain between them vanished so they sat and shared a midnight meal of wild Virginia turkey flavored with friendship.

The three found the perfect place for an inn as they approached the bustling town of Williamsburg. As they traveled south a crossroads branched, one road going on to Williamsburg and the other to the community of Yorktown. An inn situated at this crossroads was sure to do a brisk business.

Leaving Nancy and Mingo to construct their camp Walter unhitched the mules and mounted one for the few miles into Williamsburg to investigate the possibility of buying the property. The miserable summer heat was beginning to abate as September began. The two friends had a comfortable camp ready when Walter returned.

Nancy anxiously searched his face for clues. But Walter was silent as he fed and watered his mule. Nancy's eyes sought Mingo's and they both shrugged. Glancing at her husband every few seconds, Nancy stirred the pot over the fire. Mingo finished placing a tarp against the side of the wagon as a shelter from the probable rain that appeared to be brewing above them in the gathering grey clouds. He spread their blankets carefully and stood as Walter came to the fire.

"Well, the piece is owned by a family. Their father was one of several brothers who inherited the land from their father. Apparently the family has been here almost since the beginning of the town. I spoke to the eldest brother, who appears to be quite old. They may agree to sell it to us." Here Walter's carefully bland face split into a wide smile. Nancy squealed and hugged his waist. Mingo smiled at their excitement.

"He said that I should check back after noon tomorrow. So, wife, let's eat and then prepare for sleep. I want to really look the land over tomorrow before I see him. Smells good. I'm hungry!" Walter took a wooden bowl and dipped a fair amount of stew for himself. He sat down and spooned the stew into his mouth. Mingo copied him and did likewise. Nancy more daintily ladled her stew into her bowl and joined the two men. The three friends retired early as the early autumn rain began to fall.

The following afternoon Walter raced back to his wife and friend with the good news. The family would sell a piece of land measuring five acres square just south of the crossroads. After Nancy stopped squealing and Walter stopped waltzing her around the campsite, the three young people measured out an approximation of the five acres and situated the inn and stable to take advantage of the site.

In their minds they could see the white clapboard rising, the shingled roof against the sky. They planned for seven rooms, one for themselves and six to let with a large taproom in the center and the rooms on three sides. Their room would be the largest and in the center, making the other six that flanked theirs equal in size.

The following day Mingo went with Walter and Nancy to sign the papers transferring ownership of the land. The land was expensive, taking most of what they had saved. They had little left with which to build their inn. But there was thick timber on all sides and Mingo convinced them that they could still build according to their design using logs instead of clapboard. The three decided to construct the main room and the three rooms behind it first. Then they could add on as time and money allowed.

They rose the next day and paced out the dimensions of the building. Mingo and Walter worked side by side chopping the trees necessary to build the cabin. Neither young man had any experience in chopping trees, but they were helped by a traveler who stopped to noon with them on his way to Yorktown.

He showed the two young men how to fell the trees and notch them to make the logs fit on top of each other. By nightfall the two had managed to chop down two trees, trim the branches and notch them. They were so tired that they didn't eat much and fell into their blankets just as the moon rose over the trees.

The next morning Nancy spread bacon fat on their raw, blistered hands and bound them tightly with strips of cloth. They were both so sore that they could barely move. The farmer's son was familiar with soreness and hard physical work so his body soon limbered. Not so the body of the Earl's son. His years of ease had softened his body and hands until he was in a fair amount of pain. He gritted his teeth and refused to give in.

Day after day the two young men chopped trees. They used the mules to drag them to the site and then realized that they had piled the logs exactly where they needed to dig the foundation and had to spend a day moving them. Nancy laughed at their mistake and baked them corncakes for supper. Her good nature pleased both of the tired young men as every evening she tended to their blisters and small wounds. She washed their sweaty shirts and kept water warm for a quick sluicing whenever they wanted to rinse their sweaty bodies.

By the end of September the main room had been raised and the three smaller rooms were attached to the south. The men cut doorways into the rooms and placed one window in the two end rooms and two in the center room which would be the Miller's. The nights were cool now and the two men rushed to chink the logs before cold winds could start to blow.

Two neighboring farmers and their teenaged sons helped them for two days in exchange for use of the two mules during their harvest. The roof was shingled with shake shingles and the fireplaces for the center room and the taproom completed before the first really cold rain fell. The large privy pit had been dug and the little house completed over it.

The three happy people moved all their belongings into the two completed rooms and sat on the floor gratefully as the rain drummed on their newly finished roof. They ate their first meal inside together before the large stone fireplace at the front of the room. The meals for the travelers would be cooked there and the guests would be seated around tables scattered throughout the large room.

Nancy snuggled under Walter's arm and sighed contentedly. Mingo watched heir faces in the firelight. He felt great affection for his two friends and pride in the help that he had been able to give to them. They smiled at him in the glowing light.

"Mingo, we couldn't have done this without you. We want you to know that whenever you are visiting nearby, you can stay at The Amity House free of charge for as long as you wish. And if you never come back this way, you can still write to us. We will never forget you. If this child is a girl, our first son will still be named for you. You are part of our hearts forever."

Walter swallowed and Nancy blinked back tears. "You are welcome to stay here through the winter. In fact, we hope that you do. Then you can start from here next spring and continue on to Kentucky with a full stomach and a cool mug of ale!"

Mingo's words were warm with emotion. With a full heart he replied, "Thank you. I accept your offering of a winter home. And I too shall never forget your friendship."

The three friends sat several more minutes as the fire died. Then the Millers rose and bade their friend goodnight. They walked hand and hand into their own center room and left their friend warm before the fire in the big echoing room that he had helped to build.


	5. Chapter 5

Kentucky Morning

Mingo spent the winter of 1766-67 in The Amity House with Walter and Nancy. The two young men worked from early morning to evening darkness making furniture for the inn. Walter had some knowledge, having repaired furniture in his family's house and farm tools, harnesses, and buildings on the farm. Mingo was a willing apprentice and the two worked well together. They made three tables and a long bar across the wall near the fireplace, two small cot beds for the travelers to come and one large double bed for Walter and Nancy. Mingo continued to sleep on a pile of blankets before the large center room fireplace.

Mingo's hair grew to cover his shirt collar. He tied it back with a thin leather thong that he carefully cut from the mules' reins. In the dark hours of the winter night Nancy sat before the fire sewing two cloth shirts for him, one in a deep wine red and the other a sky blue. He purchased a pair of buckskin trousers from the trader's store outside Williamsburg and was pleased at the easy comfort they provided. Their only disadvantage was that they became stiff if they got wet and were not treated. Nancy made him one cloth pair to wear when the buckskin needed to be cleaned.

The spring thaw began in mid-February and Mingo was restless. The Millers understood and did all they could to prepare for the approaching parting. Mingo made a trip into Williamsburg on one of the mules and with his father's parting gift purchased three pounds of tea, two pounds of sugar, ten pounds of corn meal, a pound of salt, shot, powder, hatchet, and a pair of locally made moccasins. He bought a tin kettle, pot, cup and plate, along with a long-handled metal spoon and steel butcher knife. Three red blankets were added to the list, as was a heavy cloth tarp and two lengths of hemp rope.

He also purchased a dun-colored mule to act as a pack animal. He sat in one of the many taprooms and listened to the talk flowing around him. It was as if he wanted to absorb as much of his British culture as possible before following his heart across the mountains and into Kentucky.

Nancy delivered her son on the last day of February with a minimum of difficulty. There was a nearby farm wife that acted as midwife to the surrounding farms and she tended the young woman with knowledge and compassion. Mingo and Walter spent the hours of labor finishing the long plank benches to stand before the equally long plank tables in the taproom. Mingo did all within his power to distract the nervous husband and when the birth was complete and Walter held the squirming baby to show Mingo, his blue eyes reflected all the gratitude and affection that he felt for his tall companion.

On the third day of March Mingo rose with the light and bade farewell to Walter, Nancy and Edmund Miller. He held his namesake for several minutes praying for the infant's well-being while the child's parents looked on with brimming eyes. They knew that they would never again have a friend quite like this quiet Cherokee man. All their lives Walter and Nancy would remember the months that they spent in Mingo's company. They counted the time as some of the best of their lives.

Mingo gently returned the infant to his mother. He pulled his coat over his shoulders, slung his powder horn and pouch in place, and faced his friends. Walter put out his hand and took Mingo's. Then, as the emotion overtook the small innkeeper, he pulled Mingo into his arms and hugged him tightly.

Nancy handed the baby to Walter and also pulled the tall Cherokee close. She held herself against him for several long seconds and Mingo could feel her body trembling from suppressed sobs. He bent and kissed her cheek. The loving gesture was too much for the young woman and she pulled from Mingo's arms, snatched her baby from her husband, and ran sobbing into her bedroom.

Mingo blinked back the tears that had quickly formed, walked to the door and grasped his gun. He walked through and heard Walter shut it behind him. The bang had a solid sound of finality. Mingo grasped the mule's lead rope and strode west with long strides, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Millers as quickly as he could.

More than at any time in the past ten years of his life he wanted to turn and run back. He had no doubts about his chosen course, but he knew that he would miss Walter and Nancy more than anyone he had ever known with the exception of his own mother and Calvin Cushing.

He made only 10 miles the first day through the thick timber. The ground was soggy from the melted snow and he could not walk as rapidly as he wished. He carefully made camp against a rock outcropping deep in the Virginia forest. The hot tea was welcome as the cold of early March settled after the sun set. His meal of corn cakes sat heavy in his stomach. The sound of the mule munching the newly uncovered winter grass was soothing. With heavy eyes Mingo finished the tea, unpacked his blankets, rolled into all three and was asleep in the space of a half dozen deep breaths. He was going home.

Mingo developed an easy trail stride within the first week's travel. His long legs were a distinct advantage and the dun mule was an easy traveler. He developed the habit of talking to the animal as though it was another person, and was very grateful for the animal's presence.

He had not been truly alone at any time in his life. He found the experience both exhilarating and upsetting. The freedom was wonderful. He could eat when he wished, sleep when he wished, walk when he wished, rest when he wished. No one argued with him or depended upon him for anything.

Unsettling for Mingo were the hours of total silence when all the many thoughts, memories and emotions flooded into his mind and heart and he had no way of blocking them out. The forest birds and animals were too gentle to overpower the past.

He tried singing to distract his mind from the unwelcome memories, and the tactic worked as long as he didn't concentrate too much on the song. He discovered that the lyrics could be treacherous. Even if he carefully chose his song the lyrics had a way of sparking a memory. So he abandoned the lyrics and hummed the tune. Even this was not satisfactory. The tunes themselves held memories that he had not even imagined.

Every evening at his camp stop he practiced learning to use the whip given to him by the teamster in far off Philadelphia. He was proud of the skill that he was quickly developing. The dun mule swiveled his ears every time the whip cracked. He had memories too.

Finally one day as he approached the divide between Virginia on the east and Kentucky on the west he decided that he must take the time, no matter how long, to battle his ghosts and settle his mind. He found a beautiful campsite beside a clear spring that bubbled out of a limestone outcropping. He cleared a place for a semi-permanent fire, gathered several armloads of wood, shot a turkey and got it roasting over the fire.

The mule, which he had named Shakespeare in a moment of whimsy, was picketed safely nearby. The kettle was filled with spring water and steamed over the fire for tea. His blankets were carefully spread with the limestone behind them. He was as ready as he could make himself for his ordeal.

He ate his meal and cleaned the camp, then sat with his back against the cold limestone and let the memories press forward. Images, voices and feelings swirled together in a maelstrom of conflict. Though uncomfortable, he allowed the process until one event gained precedence over the others and he could focus on that one. It was his mother's death. With it came the feeling of abandonment that had wounded him so deeply. His breathing became labored as he struggled with the emotions and memories. After several minutes he was able to admit his loss and grieve for her.

The wild night closed in around him as he sat and dealt with his ghosts. The morning light found him still seated against the rock, his eyes ringed with dark circles of weariness but his mind finally quieter. He sighed deeply, banked the fire, rolled onto his blanket bed and fell instantly asleep.

He spent four days wrestling with his haunted past. The hardest ghosts to deal with were those that swirled around his father. He would sleep, eat, and battle. To break the cycle he walked into the forest and repicketed Shakespeare or set snares for small game. He remembered snatches of his boyhood training with his Cherokee people and enough remained that he could survive in the woods.

The emotions were taking a toll on his body but he was young and strong and understood that there would be no permanent damage. As he confronted his anger, bitterness and sorrow his mind grew quieter and he looked forward to the time soon to come when he could live his life without the torment that now plagued him.

An early spring storm attacked his forest retreat on the afternoon of the fourth day. He felt the air change around him and brought Shakespeare in close to the camp. Using both ropes he tightly tied the mule to a tree on the most protected side of the limestone outcropping. He quickly broke branches from the nearby evergreen trees and created a brush lean-to against the same limestone outcropping. He laid a pile of branches on the ground beneath the shelter and folded his blankets over it to act as a seat.

He placed his supplies beside the blanket on the branches along with all his beloved books. Before the storm began he cooked a quick meal of corn cakes and made a full pot of tea. As the lightning began to streak across the sky above him he took the kettle into the pine-scented shelter and prepared for the onslaught.

Just then another man burst through the trees and shouted. "There's a big storm a'comin' and you got a good shelter thar. Mind if I share it?" Mingo pointed his gun at the strange man and looked him over carefully as he stood illuminated by the dying campfire. The man was dressed in buckskin, carried a gun that was not now pointed at him, and a large pack. He grinned at Mingo and spread his hands to show that he was unarmed.

"You may come on in. It will be tight quarters. I was not expecting company."

The stranger carefully bent and slid under Mingo's brush shelter. He sat beside the Cherokee and extended his hand. "Charles Hays is my name. From Virginy now. Just carryin' a message to Major Roberts over to Detroit. Where you bound, pilgrim?"

Mingo remembered Captain Dary's warning and the many experiences of his lifetime that had made him wary of strangers. He looked carefully into Charles Hays' face, searching for signs of danger. He found nothing but the sparkling sea-blue eyes and smiling lips. The older man seemed to understand the reason for Mingo's actions and allowed himself to be examined without protest.

The thunder shook the timber and the two men glanced at the startled mule that was pulling frantically at his tether. "Hope you got him tied tight, young fella. Mules hate noise. I knowed me a mule oncet that pulled his head **off** jerking agin' a rope thataway."

Mingo stared at his companion, trying to decide if the tale could be true. He decided that it was unlikely. Shakespeare would probably pull, but he would eventually settle down. Or he would break the ropes and run away, in which case Mingo would have to chase him. He did not look forward to that possibility.

Charles Hays looked again at his companion. "Air you goin' to tell me your name, or do I have to start guessin'? It'd be a sight easier if'n you'd just tell, but a sight more amusin' if'n I start guessin'!"

Mingo smiled and told the traveler his name. "There, ain't that better? Now we can visit while this here storm's got us packed in here together tighter 'n a badger in a chipmunk hole."

Mingo shook his head in amusement as the man's description bloomed in his mind. He relaxed and began to enjoy his surprise company. The two men shared several cups of tea. Charles told fanciful stories and Mingo listened in enjoyment as the rain sluiced down off the limestone rocks and the thunder added punctuation to the tales.

Charles Hays and Mingo set out together the following morning. Both men were traveling the same direction and it made sense for them to stay together for added protection as well as companionship. They crossed the divide into Kentucky Territory in mid-April and began the descent down the west side of the mountains. Mingo was well provisioned and he shared equally with Charles. Charles did his part by doing the hunting while Mingo made camp each evening. They took turns guarding the camp during the night and spent each day telling stories about their disparate lives.

Charles was a rough man who had grown up in the wild forests of western Pennsylvania. Like Daniel Boone he had a wandering itch and left his parents' house when he was only fourteen. He worked hiring himself as a farm hand, a hunter for surveyors and a guide for British commands pushing westward into the wilderness. He was now in his late twenties, free as a bird and joyously happy.

Unable to read, write or cipher his ignorance seemed a blessing to him instead of a hindrance. Mingo could not understand anyone feeling that way so he explored the man's thinking with eagerness. Charles was quite willing to tell about himself and had a way of embellishing his stories that made the hours upon the trail fly by.

The wiry frontiersman taught his companion everything that he knew about woodsmanship. Though a half-Cherokee by birth Mingo's upbringing left him sorely out of place in the wilderness. He remembered a few skills from being an Indian child and had hardened his body through hard work with Walter, but though these experiences would probably keep him alive long enough to reach a Cherokee village they would not be enough if he should find himself in danger.

Charles taught Mingo the different tracks of the wild animals and how to move silently through the thick underbrush. He showed his Indian companion various edible plants and plants that could be used as rudimentary medicine. He enumerated the various tribes that they were likely to find in the wild interior and how to recognize each one. He mended Mingo's moccasins and explained as he did. The sky's messages were plainly written to the wild Pennsylvanian and he pointed out examples to Mingo as they traveled.

The two spent nearly three weeks together, then Charles Hays turned north to deliver his message to the command at Detroit. On the last morning together the two very different men said a heartfelt goodbye and turned to their separate ways. Mingo waved his hand in farewell and the slight smiling man returned the gesture with gusto.

Better armed with knowledge and anxious to meet his Cherokee family, Mingo walked as far each day as possible before making camp. Shakespeare remained a willing companion and the two ended their early May day in a beautiful small glade near the Stone River.

As night fell and the tree frogs buzzed Mingo prepared his blankets for the night. Suddenly he noticed that Shakespeare had lifted his head and pricked his long ears toward a spot in the deepest part of the woods. Mingo rolled quickly and grasped his gun, lying as flat as possible on the damp ground. Out in the dark woods there was silence.

Then three men walked out of the trees. They were Indians. Though they did not have their guns trained on him, Mingo felt their power as they approached his camp. He swallowed and forced his mind to carefully look at their clothing and feathers. As he did so, something from far back in his mind stirred itself. He lay barely breathing as the men continued toward him. They spoke in a language strangely familiar but that Mingo couldn't understand.

When they were inside the area lit by the fire Mingo noticed that one of the men seemed to be about his age, the other two older. They stood quietly, watching him. He slowly raised himself into a sitting position, making no effort to raise his gun. He waved them to seat themselves and offered his tin cup of tea. The three warriors sat and the oldest one accepted the tin cup. He tasted the contents, then bade his two companions to also taste. They talked together for several minutes. Mingo watched them excitedly. According to Charles Hays' descriptions, these three men were Cherokee. They could be his relatives.

Unable to sit quietly as this possibility coursed through his mind, Mingo rose to his full height and stepped toward them. The oldest man also rose and slowly approached. His dark eyes explored every inch of Mingo's face. He turned to his two companions, gesturing and talking rapidly. They also rose. Then the oldest man turned toward Mingo again and said one word: "Caramingo?"

Mingo's head spun and he caught his breath. He slowly raised his hand and placed it over his heart. He also said one word: "Caramingo". Then the night exploded in smiles.

The four walked into the Cherokee village before noon the next day. The oldest man, the one who had recognized Mingo, walked ahead of his companions and ducked inside a large lodge. Only a moment later a man with the air of authority stepped outside followed by a woman with a small girl at her side and the warrior that had found Mingo. The dignified man walked directly to Mingo and stopped inches from his chest.

Though nearly a head shorter the man's piercing eyes looked deeply into Mingo's for a long time, searching. The slow minutes passed and Mingo was becoming uncomfortable under the man's intense gaze. All around them men, women and children gathered and the buzz of conversation made a steady background hum. Suddenly the man took Mingo's arm and with authority addressed the gathered Cherokee. Then he turned to Mingo and hugged him tightly. Immediately other men and women clustered closely and did the same. Mingo was seriously out of breath from the intense hugs but deliriously happy. He was home.

Mingo's life as a Cherokee began at that moment. Menewa, his uncle, was the leader of the band that contained Mingo's family. He was pulled into the family lodge and given the seat of honor before the fire. His aunt, Menewa's second wife, handed him a wooden spoon and beckoned him to help himself to the stew simmering over the fire. Beside him sat the little girl, her enormous blue eyes a clear advertisement that she was white.

As many relatives as possible were crowded into the large lodge to watch Mingo's every move with obvious affection and joy, including the warrior who had first recognized him and turned out to be Menewa's younger brother. He couldn't stop smiling himself. The homecoming was as wonderful as he had imagined during all the dark years of his forced removal from them. Their warm affection was as soothing as ointment on abraded skin.

Every night he sat with his uncle's family and listened to the stories that they told. He remembered simple words and was soon able to understand much of what they were saying. The more subtle nuances he missed, but the flow of each story was understandable.

He reconnected with friends from his childhood and they taught him the ways of a Cherokee warrior. His aunt and her friends and relatives quickly created a beautiful buckskin vest with exquisite beadwork on the shoulders. The vest displayed his muscular arms perfectly and gave him great freedom of movement. His women cousins created a beaded necklace and armband for him, and his uncle gave him a metal bracelet and medallion to hang in the center of the necklace.

He wore a wide woven belt around his waist given to him by his aunt's sisters. His trousers were fashioned after the buckskin trousers, made from a pair captured from a party of surveyors that crossed Cherokee land. Mingo felt odd wearing them until he began to think more as a Cherokee and less as a white. His shoulder-length hair was braided beside his face but left free to fall about his strong shoulders at the back. His forelocks were cut into a black fringe across his forehead. Two feathers rose several inches above the back of his head.

After he had been with his mother's people for nearly two months Mingo asked his uncle to tell him about his mother. Menewa looked long into his nephew's dark eyes, then nodded and beckoned him outside the lodge. The stately older man walked a short distance into the woods and found a comfortable seat on a nearby rock outcropping. Mingo sat down a few feet away. Using short, simple words Menewa answered all of the questions that Mingo was able to ask.

His sister Talota had been beautiful. Many warriors wanted her as wife. But her high position made her a valuable commodity used to cement a political decision between the Cherokee and the Creeks. She could have refused the marriage but she considered it her duty to do as her people asked. After her Creek husband's death she returned to her own tribe with her Creek son. She would probably have chosen a high-ranking older Cherokee to take as husband.

But she had taken the eye of the young British officer assigned to survey Virginia west of the mountains. Again she was asked to accept an unwanted marriage, this time to please a British ally. But she did feel affection for the red-haired British officer and they married according to Cherokee custom. Her Creek son would not accept her choice to live with a white man and ran away back to his father's people as soon as he was of age.

Her younger son, himself, was born with both Cherokee and white blood. He remained with his mother's people and lived as a Cherokee. Talota died of a poison that came from a wound on her hand where she accidentally cut herself with the edge of a metal trader's pot. The rest Mingo knew.

After Menewa finished Mingo sat with his head bowed. His hands were clenched with suppressed emotion. Menewa understood the difficulty his nephew must be having accepting his answers. He continued to sit and watch his much-loved nephew struggle with the past that was not in any way his doing. Then he rose and placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder in a gesture of affection and understanding. After several seconds he walked back into the village and left Mingo with his own thoughts.

His uncle's explanation had answered questions that he had pondered for much of his life. His respect for his mother was already high, but now that he understood her sacrifices he honored her even more. He made a vow to himself never to shame her memory by any word or deed. In his heart he promised her that he would live his life as honorably as she had lived hers. He rose unsteadily and moved silently to her scaffold. There he lay down beneath her shriveled body and mourned her through the remaining hours of the short summer night.

Atsila, Menewa's wife, decided that Mingo needed his own lodge. He was a grown man and as such did not need to live with his extended family. She had seen his discomfort and embarrassment as Menewa rolled off of her late in the night. It was time for him to have his own wife, but in the meantime he could leave his aunt's lodge and protect his privacy in his own small dwelling. Though unusual Atsila soothed herself with the thought that everything about Mingo was unusual.

She enlisted the help of her two sisters and in the space of a few days constructed a small lodge only ten paces from her lodge. Near enough to feel part of the family and take his meals with them, the little building was far enough away to give the young man the privacy that his white blood craved. She even left a small window in the side of the building as was common among white settlers so that he would feel more content. Mingo thanked his aunt with simple words and patted her arm in gratitude. She smiled and waved him inside with his first bundle of books.

Mingo spent days constructing a chair out of supple willow branches. He wove them together over a frame which he bound together with rawhide thongs. The chair was very comfortable as it gave with his weight. He accepted a narrow cot from his uncle, also woven from supple branches. Over this frame he piled several deer hides with the fur facing up. The bed was also surprisingly comfortable. His uncle had carefully extended the frame for his tall figure.

Mingo slept soundly alone in his own cabin. He was uncomfortable admitting it, but he did crave a measure of privacy uncommon among the Cherokee. He assumed that it came from all his years of living as a white man. Privately Menewa believed that it was just his nature.

As the summer eased into fall and Mingo continued to participate in Cherokee games and social gatherings it was only natural that he cast his eyes at the unmarried Cherokee women. And they cast their eyes at him.

Two young women pleased him very much. One was adventurous and somewhat rowdy. Her name was Tsigalili, Cherokee for ' chickadee'. She resembled the little bird with her quick movements and bright black eyes. The other young woman was more sedate. Called Sunalei, she also resembled her name which in Cherokee meant 'morning'.

Before Mingo the chickadee had cast her eyes upon a warrior named U-ne-gau-yo-na. When he noticed Mingo watching her as she moved about the camp he quickly made his acceptance known to the young woman. U-ne-gau-yo-na was a good hunter and capable warrior, and Tsigalili and her family agreed that he would indeed be a good husband. Tsigalili accepted his suit and so Mingo's choice was in effect made for him.

He watched Sunalei as she did her daily chores. Though not really tall, she was taller than most of the other girls and women in the village. She was comely, with high cheekbones and a pointed little chin. Her smooth skin was light for a full-blooded Cherokee and her smile was quiet and sweet. She noticed Mingo's attention and contrived to do most of her work within his line of sight. Carefully she watched him and gave him her slow smile several times a day. She was of a suitable clan, and Mingo asked Menewa's advice about accepting her invitation.

Menewa listened to Mingo and offered no objections. He spoke to Atsila, and she also had no objections. The two went to see Sunalei's parents the next day. Mingo waited anxiously in his lodge, trying to prepare his mind for the idea of marriage. He acknowledged that he had few examples in his life to compare. Menewa and Atsila, Walter and Nancy were the only married couples that he had observed closely. He nervously paced his small cabin as he waited.

Shortly after noon Menewa entered his lodge. Mingo stopped pacing and stood still before his willow chair. He could tell from his uncle's face that something had gone wrong. Slowly he sat down in his chair. "Tell me, Uncle. What is wrong?"

Menewa's tight lips denoted anger. Mingo saw the expression and steeled himself. He imagined the problem was his mixed parentage. Again. A sigh escaped from deep in his chest. He bowed his head.

His uncle strode to his side. His voice registered his anger as he spoke. "Mingo, never bow your head to prejudice." He saw his nephew struggle with the unfamiliar word and Menewa tried again. "Sunalei's parents do not wish the match. They object to your white father. They say that you carry a taint. Sunalei does not want to displease them." Again Mingo frowned at the unfamiliar word. Menewa was becoming agitated as he searched his mind for simple words.

"Nephew, some men do not like other men because of their skin. With others it is the blood. You must face both kinds of men. All of your life you will find men who hate you, who are afraid of you or who challenge you because of that which you cannot control. You walk a path that few others must take. It is not right, but it is so. I am sorry. "

Mingo raised his eyes to his uncle and nodded his understanding. Menewa placed his hand on his nephew's muscular arm and squeezed. Then he turned soundlessly and left the little lodge. Mingo sat quietly in his willow chair. His mind whirled with despair. He had thought to find acceptance among the Cherokee that he could not find among white men. Now he had to face the fact that prejudice occurred in all races, in all cultures. He slumped in his chair as the realization opened new wounds over the partially healed scars in his soul.

Mingo did not appear for the evening meal. Atsila looked questioningly at her husband and Menewa shook his head. She sighed and moved toward the door. Menewa stopped her before she could pass through. "Leave him. He struggles with pain that you and I can only imagine. He will come to us when he is ready."

Atsila obeyed. Menewa knew Mingo's history far better than she did. His first wife Tsisqua died without a son, leaving Menewa alone and needy. She stepped into the position of wife with her own gifts. Menewa trusted her with his heart, but not with his past. She knew that in time he would confide in her. She would wait.

When the next morning became afternoon Mingo left his lodge. He entered his uncle's lodge and ate several bites from the bubbling pot, then left in silence to return to his own lodge. When he did not reappear for the evening meal Menewa took it upon himself to address his nephew.

Mingo was sitting in his willow chair, eyes closed. He was thinking. All day the images of Anora Masterson had swirled in his mind. Even Guinevere Alford passed through. Sunalei gracefully wove her way in. His father's taunting words echoed over and over: "Her father is concerned that you will contaminate his daughter ...." Apparently James Alford was not alone. Walter and Nancy smiled in his memory. If he was never to experience the same closeness he could bear that. What was so wounding was the reason. He heard Menewa enter his lodge and opened his dark eyes.

"Mingo, it is not good for you to remain alone. Come into my lodge and laugh with us."

"No uncle. I have no laughter in me. Tomorrow I am going into the woods alone. I must think apart from you. I must decide my path. I now know that I created this wound for myself. I forgot what I know to be true. Men are men no matter their color."

"That is true. You are wise, Mingo. Do not let this hurt change you into a bitter man."

"That is what I fight, uncle. My father is a bitter man and I know the result of that bitterness. I must not become as he is. I must go out alone to seek my true self. Can you understand?" His dark eyes, full of misery, held Menewa's.

Menewa nodded. "Your lodge is here, my nephew. Your family is here. Many friends wait for you, to welcome you into the company of Cherokee warriors. When you are ready, come to us." Raising his hand in a salute of farewell, Menewa ducked under the door covering and was gone.

The next morning before dawn Mingo strode out of his uncle's village and into the Kentucky woods. Over his shoulders he wore an elkskin coat, beautifully tanned a russet brown by his loving aunt. He took his gun, his shot pouch and powder horn, his knife and whip, a blanket and few provisions. He would live off the land as a Cherokee warrior. In the silent woodlands he would sort out his life path.

As he broke free of the dense timber into a small open meadow the sun touched his head with its golden rays. In that bright moment he was Caramingo, a Cherokee, Talota's son. He was also Edmund Kerr Murray, the son of an English Earl. But above all else, he was a man.


End file.
